


Of Necromancy and Swords and Lace

by Morike91



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bridgerton (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Ball AU, Content Warning: Ianthe Tridentarius, Dancing, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fake Relationship, Gideon in a suit, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers, Harrow/Camilla, Hate at First Sight, Her Divine Highness Gideon Prime, Matthias Nonius keeps coming up for some reason, Rated T for hand fondling and innuendos, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tags to be added as chapters are added, There will be a lot, background cavalier bros, cavs will be cavs, garden parties are still the worst, handwaving worldbuilding and necromancy, more dancing, no beta we die like cavaliers, open mic poetry nights, terrible teens are terrible, the inherent fear of receiving kindness, the tone and tenses are all over the place, will the wheel Dulcinea please remain seated for your health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28980720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morike91/pseuds/Morike91
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a scion in possession of a dying House must be in want of a wife. Preferably one with resources. Harrowhark is a house scion in need of a wife. Gideon Prime has the universe at her fingertips. The only problem is: they absolutely fucking hate each other. No offense.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 89
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On worldbuilding: takes place on Ganymede because you can’t actually live on Jupiter, good lord, you’d be crushed the moment you enter atmo. So we’re on Ganymede which I hear would be nice because it has its own magnetosphere. But there’s also blue skies and weather because this is also Regency-era London. And spaceships and digital communiques because we’re on fucking Ganymede. And also written letters on papers because this is Regency-era London. Just check your nit-picking at the door and have a little fun, is what I’m saying.

The delivery boy was a freelancer; this was intentional. He wore his best clothes, which were still ragged by society standards, but they were all he had. In his hands and in a sack around his shoulders were a stack of freshly printed pamphlets, to be given to everyone he met as he ran around the houses of the elite at Koniortos Court; the scions of the Nine Houses and their retainers and their servants and, really, anyone else who just so happened to be walking by. There were more pamphlets than necessary, and the delivery boy was certainly not the only one running around with excitement in his eyes and a lightness to his gait. 

But it’s the pamphlet that held the most importance here. It was a first edition released for free as a marketing ploy with a tearaway section people can send in to subscribe to further issues. And it did what it was supposed to do: cause a frenzy. 

On this morning, this particular morning when retainers and heirs and tradesmen alike all scrambled to showcase their best foot, there was nary an individual that did not have at least one copy of this pamphlet stuffed in their pocket, or displayed in front of their nose, or on top of the daily mail. This pamphlet made it all the way to the House of the First, where a dark man of sinew and silk read it with a raised eyebrow, green eyes alight with curiosity and the sort of amusement you give a child who thinks they’ve grown up. Naturally, this is a pamphlet that also made its way to the House of the Fifth, hosts of the current Season; Lady Abigail Pent and her cavalier Sir Magnus Quinn bent their heads over the pamphlet, conspiring, for theirs is the gala that will open everything. 

But perhaps, most importantly, in a quaint house at the edge of the estates of the Nine Houses, a veteran swordmaster with one eye and one leg glanced at the opening paragraphs of the pamphlet and grunted in disapproval. “This isn’t worth our time,” said Captain Aiglamene to her lady. 

“I would like to read it, anyway,” said the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus. She sat at a dining room table with the remains of her breakfast piled on her plate—she only ate half, being too nervous for any more. She held out her hand, and her captain relinquished the pamphlet. And Harrowhark read:

* * *

_ Dear Reader, _

_ Welcome, welcome welcome! The opening of the social season is upon us; a time for the Nine Houses to meet and relax and, in some cases, find lifelong partners to call spouses. My name is Lady Whistledown, and I will be detailing the events of the season to you, dear reader, so you may keep abreast of all the latest gossip. Are you a tradesperson? For these pamphlets will clue you in on the state of your clientele among the elite. Are you a member of the elite? For these pamphlets will keep you up-to-date on all the events you missed and the people you did not have time to catch up with.  _

_ And perhaps you are neither of these. In which case, I hope you gain as much entertainment from them as possible. For this first edition, I will detail the major players of the social season; these are the people who will be sure to keep your eye on for the duration. From gala to garden party to seance to gala again, you can expect a new Whistledown to be released after every social event of note.  _

_ First, I must introduce our hosts for the season. Lady Abigail Pent and Sir Magnus Quinn, scions of the Fifth House, are hosting this season at Koniortos Court. Lady Pent and Sir Quinn are a power couple in their own right, stable in marriage and unyielding with their wards. Speaking of, Baron Isaac Tettares and his cavalier Sir Jeannemary Chatur will be present at all official events. They are young and looking to have a bit of fun, but not too much, as they are still too young to drink and get married, though they are of an age to join the Cohort. Under the guidance of the Fifth (with consultations by the Fourth), the season will be packed with entertainment for all Nine Houses.  _

_ Yes, I did say all Nine Houses. Intrigued? Read on! I will detail everything.  _

_ Next is the scion of the Seventh House. This is not the first season for Duchess Dulcinea Septimus, but it may well be her last. She is present without her cavalier at her side. If you ask her politely, she may tell you why.  _

_ Moving on to happier matters, the necromantic twins of the Third are here, as they have been every year since anyone can remember. Crown Princess Coronabeth Tridentarius is determined to outshine everyone in glamor and style, and who are we to try to do otherwise? Princess Ianthe Tridentarius expressed an interest in finding a wife. She is looking for style and spunk and sagaciousness. Anyone who does not meet all three need not apply. The Third cavalier and notable duelist Prince Naberius Tern is also looking for a spouse, though this writer did not catch what he is looking for. It would be prudent for interested parties to ask him for a dance at the opening gala.  _

_ Making their debut, the representatives of the Sixth House are the Master Warden Palamedes Sextus and his cavalier, Warden’s Hand Camilla Hect. This is the first time in almost five years the Sixth have attended the social season. Word on the street is the Master Warden is looking to meet his lifelong penpal, the Duchess Septimus, in her final season. Anyone who can help facilitate such a meeting, please do so! We are all rooting for the Sixth.  _

_ And now, dear reader, we have come to the most exciting bits of the season. Making her mysterious debut is the scion of the Ninth House: Reverend Daughter of the Locked Tomb, Harrowhark Nonagesimus. For what is she here? For whom did she come to see? For why is the shadow cult making an appearance when they have not been heard from in almost ten years? The Eighth House believes the presence of the shadow cult is a bad omen for the season, and their scion Silas Octakiseron will be sticking close to ensure the Ninth is kept in their place. The Reverend Daughter is a shadow upon the season, but surely she is incapable of quelling the light of Her Divine Highness.  _

_ You have read that correctly, dear reader. We are graced with the presence of Her Divine Highness, Her Imperial Majesty, the Blooming Flower of the First, the Undying Daughter herself: Gideon Prime. A missive from the Kindly Prince and Undying Father states that Her Divine Highness seeks a wife to join her on her interplanetary adventures. If you are looking for a life of adventure and surprise, approach the Undying Daughter with confidence and humor. Word on the street is she loves to laugh. Gentlemen beware: Her Imperial Majesty only seeks relations with women, though if it is friendship you crave, ready a sword, for she was already spotted at the cavalier training grounds with her comrades from the Cohort and scions of the Second, Captain Judith Deuteros and Lieutenant Marta Dyas.  _

_ Whomever can win the heart of the Undying Daughter will be a lucky girl indeed. Will it be you? For a chance to meet Her Imperial Majesty and the other scions of the season, present this pamphlet at the door to the season’s opening gala. This is an official invite from the Fifth—Lady Abigail Pent has told this humble writer herself! I hope you see you there, dear reader. Until then, I am your humble servant.  _

_ Lady Whistledown _

* * *

The opening gala on the Fifth estate took place in the largest ballroom Harrow had ever seen. The space intimidated her in much the same way  _ outside _ did: with a ceiling so high multiple chandeliers can hang on ten-foot chains and still be six feet from the head of the tallest person in the room. And it was wide. Wider than the chapel at Drearburh, with secret nooks in the walls where people can hide away from. But when Harrow got close to one, she discovered a couple inspecting each other's tongues. So she moved to the one next door, unused because it wasn’t exactly a  _ hidden _ nook, with a single fern plant in a hanging pot above her head. Harrow felt comforted by the closed-in walls regardless. 

The gala had been going on for hours at this point. Captain Aiglamene kept her hawkish gaze on Harrow even as she chatted among other Cohort veterans. Harrow only escaped the laserlike judgement as she entered her nook. Across the dance floor, her cavalier spoke with people Harrow didn’t recognize, which means they probably weren’t important, or didn’t get offended by Ortus’s skull paint and black suit. Even worse, he may have found the local cabal if poets. Well, so long as that means he doesn't ask Harrow for advice on his epics, she probably shouldn't mind that. 

Everyone on the dancefloor twirled with dizzying grace in time to the music, played by a small orchestra on the balcony over the entrance. The colors of their dresses and suits, with flashes of rapier handles and jewelry, blurred in front of Harrow’s eyes. She pulled down her dark veil, already as far low as it would go, but the gesture was a comfort. Harrow turned away from the ball, her head spinning with the dancers, and she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. She thought about the pamphlet she read that morning by that horrid Lady Whistledown. And of the cool gaze of the Eighth House necromancer as he watched her with more judgement than Aiglamene. Silas had yet to actually approach her, which was both gratifying and terrifying in equal measure. 

The music was too much. The colors were definitely too much. Take away the dancers and the waiters and the orchestra, and the room itself will still be too much—white marble walls and a tiled floor in a black and white chessboard pattern, with statues in most of the nooks and green ferns in almost every corner and windowsill. Opposite the entrance, which led to the entryway and a couple sitting rooms, was a big window facing the ton, displaying the unnerving eye of the Fifth planet keeping watch on the twinkling evening lights of the ton. In another lifetime, Harrow might have thought the tableau quaint or relaxing. Paired with the gala, it was another stark reminder that she was far from home. 

Harrow turned towards the wall, eyes closed, breath growing steadier with every inhale. She stayed that way until she felt calmer, even though she knew that if she stayed longer than ten breaths that Aiglamene would come looking for her. Ten breaths exhaled, then ten more. And once Harrow could drop her shoulders, she turned around—

—to hit something solid and hard. 

“Ow!”

“Watch it!” 

Harrow blinked through her veil, and she hoped the other party couldn’t see her face. For the other party was taller than Harrow, wore a dress uniform, and kept a plain-hilted rapier at her hip. Her breast and shoulders were decorated with glittering Cohort medals, and her brilliantly russet hair was slicked back with gel. But there was no mistaking Her Divine Highness—she commanded a presence wherever she went. Harrow had seen her in passing across the street, as the Undying Daughter liked to walk everywhere instead of taking a private vehicle. Her brown skin shone in the light, and her dazzling amber eyes caught the crystalized light and pierced. 

Harrow hated her on sight. 

The feeling was mutual. Her Imperial Majesty lowered her brows and frowned. “Oh,” she said, “It’s a shadow cultist. Didn’t realize this space was occupied, but I guess you lot lurk almost anywhere.”

There were no insults for the daughter of the Kindly Prince, so Harrow kept her mouth shut. Suddenly she wished her face could be seen through her veil, then Her Imperial Majesty can see just how much Harrow disliked her without saying anything. 

“I hate that term,” Harrow said in lieu of what she would have preferred to say. She looked away, the only indication as a flick of her veil. “It’s so—”

“On point?”

“We’re not a cult.” Harrow thought of her congregation back home, left in the care of Marshall Crux, whom she missed the most. She missed the glowworms on the ceiling of the chapel, and low ceilings, and the familiar darkness as comforting as her childhood bed. She could almost smell the mustiness if the library. 

“Yeah, okay,  _ Reverend Daughter _ .” 

Her Imperial Highness said it like it was proof of something. But Harrow did not take it as intended. 

“I am the Reverend Daughter. And if this is how Her Divine Highness treats the scions of her houses, then perhaps the Necrolord Prime is right in not naming you as heir.” Then Harrow marched off before Her Divine Highness could respond, leaving a sputtering non-heir for the refreshment table. 

* * *

“There you are.”

Gideon removed her hands from her face, where she had been hiding with her head in the proverbial sand like those silly flightless birds she saw on that one distant planet. She still occupied the nook, winning part of the argument with the Ninth House necromancer, but somehow she lost that war. And it wasn’t a good look. Because the Ninth House is part of the Nine Houses, and just because they came with a bad reputation did not mean that they were deserving of less respect than the others. 

Point to the Reverend Daughter. 

“Here I am,” Gideon said to Judith, dear friend and companion, and the person who had found Gideon in the nook. Judith looked like she wanted to leave, which was a relief. “My dear Deuteros—” Judith rolled her eyes “—have you come to rescue Your Imperial Majesty from this bright and horrid affair?”

“Have you spoken with all the scions yet?” Judith asked. The medals on her crimson dress uniform glinted in the light. She was alone, Marta probably having a final go with the champagne, and the responsible one of their trio. Judith was reliable, a follower of orders, and she liked to do things by the book. Gideon once tried to rewrite the book without her knowing, and was promptly found out. This was why Gideon’s father liked her as his daughter’s companion: she saw through bullshit. 

“I have,” Gideon said, because technically she did  _ speak _ with the Ninth House. 

Judith narrowed her dark eyes, a familiar look of suspicion. Gideon was too tired to argue. Or maybe she knew this was not the time to fight a losing battle. It was all apparent on Gideon’s face, so when Marta approached, two full flut

es of bubblies in hand, the lieutenant read the situation like an unencrypted communique. 

“Ninth House?” Marta asked Judith. 

Judith tilted her head, because she was actually uncertain about it. “I believe so.”

When Marta rounded on Gideon, it was with the grace of a fighter. She didn’t really  _ round _ on Gideon, either; just turned her head to size up the enemy because you don't square your shoulders when fighting with a rapier. Marta knew the rapier better than she knew her own tits, and she knew better than Judith and the Undying Emperor combined how to get Gideon to do something she didn’t want to do. Gideon hated her for that, but her superior officers loved it. Which is why the Cohort admiralty liked her as Judith’s cavalier: she knew how to push Gideon’s buttons. 

“Dare you to dance with her,” Marta said, casually, as though she hadn’t been itching to push Gideon like this all night. Gideon could see the smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth, their presence marked by the mischievous glint in the lieutenant’s eyes. Marta was best when unrestrained, and opening season galas were not the sort of places to let Marta loose.

“Go suck a dick,” Gideon said in reply. 

“Chickenshit,” Marta challenged. She sipped from a flute of champagne, the other offered to her necromancer. 

When Gideon didn't say anything, Marta turned to Judith. “Your Imperial Majesty, my captain. Yellow-eyed and weak.” 

Gideon grabbed a flute of champagne from Marta and drained it in as few gulps she could manage. It tasted too dry for a liquid and too sparkly for a solid color. But it was stupidity fuel and Gideon needed it to eat the slice of humble pie squatting before her. 

“I hate you both,” she said as she left them behind in the nook. She took the glass with her. “I need you to know this, before I go. I need you to know that if you wake up to the unbearable sounds of drums pounding away at your hangovers, that was me and no one else.” 

To their credit, they faced the resigned disappointment of the Undying Daughter the same way they would face any other victory: stoically, but with some loftiness. Twins, their expressions were, and they continued to stare down Her Imperial Majesty until she was adequately face-to-face with the Reverend Daughter at the edge of the refreshment table down the room. 

Gideon set the empty champagne flute on the table next to the Reverend Daughter, her veil lifted as she finished chewing a piece of melon. The Reverend Daughter had her face painted in white and black face paint, with dark rings around her eyes, a bit at the nose, and intricate teeth on her lips. She had the paint of a skull, and it was so gothic and Ninth that Gideon assumed (not incorrectly) that she was about to talk to a walking stereotype. But then those dark eyes narrowed at the sight of Gideon, suspicious and unnerved. 

Every inch of the Reverend Daughter was covered in black. She had a black dress with a high-waist just under her (miniscule) breasts. Her jacket, a different shade of black, was too old to be in fashion and too new to be vintage. She wore gloves with cuffs hidden under the jacket sleeves. Now that she stood in the brighter light of the main room, Gideon noted the different threads embroidering the edges of the jacket—too patchy to be a style unless that’s what they called style on the Ninth. No, this outfit was thrifty in a way that the gossip mags would rip into with the viscous and exacting skill of a modiste's seam ripper. Provided the Reverend Daughter would let any of them close at all. 

The champagne was getting to Gideon’s head, so she couldn’t take that thought any further. 

“May I have this dance?” Gideon asked. She held out her hand to the Reverend Daughter, who scowled at it. She opened her mouth, probably to sneer in Gideon’s general direction, when she stumbled into Gideon’s arms. 

Gideon caught the wink of a skull-painted Cohort captain. Understanding that this was an opportunity not to be wasted, Gideon grasped the Reverend Daughter’s hands and pulled her to the dance floor. The scion of the Ninth looked flustered, the thin patch of exposed skin around her neck turning white then pink with flush. The way her eyes looked everywhere but at Gideon spoke to an incompetence on the dance floor. Lucky for her, she had Gideon, whose guardian used dancing as training for dexterity. 

“Follow my lead,” Gideon instructed, then pulled the Reverend Daughter along to the waltz. It sounded like the final song of the night, and Gideon pretended like this was every bit as intentional. Over the veiled head of her dance partner, she glowered at the Second as she passed them, still at the nook. They each raised a flute of champagne in salute. 

“I want to apologize for earlier,” Gideon said. The Reverend Daughter only had eyes for Gideon’s medals, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration. “If you’re even listening. I can’t tell.”

“I’m listening,” came the turt reply. Then, “And I accept your apology, on the grounds that you squash any mention of the phrase ‘shadow cultist’ for as long as I am here.”

Gideon hoped her dance partner did not see her eye roll. “You really hate that term.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” said the Reverend Daughter, her eyes darting to Gideon’s face then anywhere but, “if the Ninth House is a cult, then so is the Sixth with their command of the Library, and the Fifth for their knowledge of the River. The Eighth is especially cultist, for I believe their practices are more renowned than the Ninth’s, and the Ninth doesn’t breed cavaliers like cattle.” 

“No,” said Gideon, “but you do take in pilgrims without letting them leave.”

The Reverend Daughter tightened her grip on Gideon’s hand and shoulder. “Our doors are opened now,” she said quietly, almost like a threat. “People can come and go as they please again.”

This intrigued Gideon, but she didn’t say why. They finished the last bars of the dance, and when the guests applauded for the orchestra, Gideon bowed to her dance partner, as was polite. The Reverend Daughter did not curtsey or bow, but nodded her head. It was enough for Gideon, who left the Ninth scion to fend for herself. 

“Have fun with the shadow cultist?” Marta asked wickedly. 

“Don’t call her that,” Gideon said. 

Judith and Marta shared a raised eyebrow, and Gideon could not bring herself to care. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon is hungover. Harrow finds some friends.

_Dear Reader,_

_The Opening Gala was a renowned success! The festivities commenced with a welcome speech by Sir Magnus Quinn, who started the whole affair with a joke that had groans and giggles in equal measure. He and his wife, the Lady Abigail Pent, started the dancing with a rousing number that had her twirling so much, it was an obvious ploy to show off her gown. And I must say, both gown and necromancer were positively eye-catching!_

_Like they did last social season, the Tridentarius Princesses danced with each other for their first dance of the season. Their way of showing off their commitment to each other. According to some guests, this dance was more unscrupulous than others in past years, which goes to show that you can never predict what the Princesses will do next._

_Perhaps the most entertaining item of the night came from Duchess Dulcinea Septimus, who approached every single cavalier primary of the Nine Houses and asked them for a kiss. Successes for the night include Naberius the Third, Marta the Second, and Ortus the Ninth. Magnus the Fifth would only allow a peck on his cheek, and Colum the Eighth refused her lips on everything that wasn’t his knuckles. Jeannemary the Fourth, for all her pomp and bravery, avoided the duchess all night._

_Upon discovery of the Lady Septimus’s goal, Her Imperial Majesty attempted to solicit a kiss by making the argument that she is the cavalier primary of the First House, despite the First House’s lack of a cavalier primary for all of history. Lady Septimus had the gall to refuse the Undying Daughter, which caused Her Imperial Majesty to retreat into one of the many secret nooks in the ballroom._

_But, dear reader, you would not believe how the night ended! After spending the entire gala avoiding everyone, the scion of the Ninth, the Reverend Daughter!, ended the night with a dance with Her Imperial Majesty! A studied eye might have realized that the Reverend Daughter does not know how to dance (or she does not know how to dance a waltz), but that is not the reason the gossip queens are chittering. They finished the night together! Dear reader, is there a possible courtship brewing between the Reverend Daughter and Her Imperial Majesty? This humble writer is on the case and will bring you updates as they happen. Until them, I am your humble servant._

_Lady Whistledown_

* * *

Gideon’s bed at the First House estate on Koniortos Court was the best thing that ever happened to her. It was large. It was fluffy. It was potentially too soft for her back. But Gideon sunk into the mattress as though she were floating on a cloud and it was the best feeling in the world to wake up thinking she was swallowed by a marshmallow. 

It was the worst thing in the world being hungover from the night previous when her guardian decided to jump into the bed beside her. As obnoxiously as possible, of course, because Pyrrha never half-assed anything in her life. The up-and-down oscillations of the bounce stirred a sense of nausea in Gideon’s head and stomach, and it was only by staying as still as she can (and pointing her face towards the ceiling) that Gideon kept everything inside. 

“Fuck off,” Gideon groaned. 

The familiar chuckle of Gideon the First was not actually Gideon the First. Gideon the First (often called Senior in Junior’s mind) didn’t really chuckle, never smirked, and held himself with the stiffness of a soldier. Only a handful of people knew the existence of Pyrrha Dve, and Gideon was the only one in the royal family who did. That was because once, when Gideon was still a toddler, she noticed her guardian acting strangely and followed him (er, her). Toddler Gideon had surprised Pyrrha, who took advantage of the innocent action to maintain a presence in the child's life. With Pyrrha’s help, Gideon started training in swordplay, convinced her father to allow her into the Cohort, and persuaded her superior officers to send her to the frontlines. It was Pyrrha’s advice on leadership that helped Gideon earn the respect of her fellow soldiers, more than her title ever could. Pyrrha Dve was more parent than Gideon’s actual parent, but she was also the absolute worst. 

“ _Upon discovery of the Lady Septimus’s goal_ ,” read Pyrrha Dve, her pluckiness never not sounding weird in Senior's rough voice, “ _Her Imperial Majesty attempted to solicit a kiss_ —” a pillow to the face did not stop the secret cavalier from reading on. Then again, these pillows were useless if they had to deal any real damage anyway “— _by making the argument that she is the cavalier primary of the_ —”

“P l e a s e shut up,” Gideon groaned, louder than before. Her hangover took a big blacksmith nail and rammed it behind her eyes with the force of an equine kick. 

“Did you drink yourself away because you were rejected a kiss or because you gave the last dance to a black vestal?”

Gideon had to think to remember the night. She dared not open her eyes, for fear that Pyrrha had already drawn back the curtains. She could already feel her Undying Powers (a phrase her father condoned) starting to filter away the effects. “My babysitters were still conscious at the end of the night, and I wanted to change that,” Gideon said. “Now go away. My bed needs me.” She pulled the covers over her head, but that did not deter Pyrrha from continuing as though Gideon didn’t even speak. 

“And I don’t mean just any black vestal. No, according to this delightful gossip rag, you danced with THE black vestal. The Reverend Daughter herself. The dark anchorite with the painted skull! The walking caretaker of your father’s final breath.” 

“I hope your spear pokes you in the throat today,” Gideon said. “I hope it goes so deep that you split your tongue. I hope that when your new one grows back, it gets caught on the old one and you choke on two tongues.”

Gideon felt more than saw Pyrrha roll onto her back. “Oh, that’ll be the way to go! Choking on two tongues. Wouldn’t call it an insult tho. It actually sounds really fun . . .” 

Woe be to anyone who thought Gideon was naturally priurient. The moment Pyrrha Dve caught Gideon Prime with her first skin mag, she saw the news as a delightful lowering of the guard, as though she spent the first sixteen years of Gideon’s life carefully filtering the worst innuendo. As soon as Gideon reached sexual maturity, Pyrrha's vocabulary suddenly grew more robust than the skeletons on the Mithraeum, her jokes got dirtier than her hands, and (perhaps the worst bit) she started to treat Gideon with the respect of an adult instead of the respect given to a child. 

Which meant Pyrrha poked and teased just as often as she offered support and gave advice nowadays. But as much as Gideon complained, she never wanted Pyrrha to disappear. 

When Pyrrha noticed that Gideon was trying her damnest to fall back asleep, she gave up this line of mirth. There was a moment when Gideon the First’s knuckles brushed Gideon’s cheek, a tender touch Gideon had only ever gotten from the one parental figure. The night previous wasn’t anything special—Gideon had certainly had more memorable misadventures among the rebel planets—but Gideon felt Pyrrha’s pride regardless. 

“C’mon, kiddo,” Pyrrha said, “training resumes today.” She rolled off the bed and slapped Gideon’s shin as she walked to the door. “See you downstairs in fifteen. I’ll have some water and greasy sausages for you.”

“What time is it?” Gideon asked, her voice sounding less and less like a spectre from the River. 

“Noon thirty,” Pyrrha said. “Hurry up. You’ve barely worked up a sweat since we got here.” 

* * *

Earlier that morning, Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus did not fare much better. She had woken up earlier than she wanted from nerves and skipped breakfast, also from nerves. The Ninth did not have an official estate at Koniortos Court, so they took residence in a guest house let to them by the Fifth. It wasn't the sprawling mansion the Fifth presented at their opening gala, but it's quaintness felt like home in this place of strangeness, even if the siding was whitewashed and the walls inside were various shades of blue with white trimming. There were five bedrooms—three of which were occupied—a sitting room, a study, a kitchen, and a few other rooms Harrow didn’t bother with exploring. Drearburh on the Ninth was a larger estate, and this house’s small size in comparison made the getaway feel like a vacation. 

In the sitting room, in which one wall was entirely bookshelves, Harrow picked a necromancy book at random and started reading. It was stuff about spirit magic she already knew, but she was just starting to find comfort in the familiar words of academia when Aiglamene announced the arrival of Captain Judith Deuteros. 

Harrow stood, confused by the presence of the Second, and without her cavalier to boot. Did Harrow make a bigger impression than she realized? Harrow was not wearing a veil for she was not expecting company, but she did have her skull paint adorning her face, which was a relief. Not that Harrow ever spent a day without her skull paint; even if she spent a day in bed on the Ninth, she wore it. Her dress was one of the more simpler styles she had, and looked the humblest of humble when compared to the captain’s bright red Cohort uniform. 

“Captain,” Harrow greeted with what she hoped was a welcoming tone and respectful nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Captain Deuteros stood by the doorway, as though she didn’t intend to stay for very long. Her arms remained at her side, ramrod straight out of habit, and her eyes were accusatory. “I came to ask your intentions for Her Imperial Majesty.” 

It took Harrow a second to catch up with the words and what they could possibly mean. And when she did realize their implication, she got offended. Rightfully so. “My intentions? You ask me of _my_ intentions when the reputation of Her Imperial Majesty precedes her? When she is more likely to leave me high and dry before—”

Behind the captain, the door opened to allow Ortus in the room. From across the way, Harrow saw that Ortus’s paint was still wet and a little sloppy. His presence was welcome none the same. He nodded to Harrow and took a seat at the desk in the corner. Harrow understood the implication. He was to act as chaperone, not to prevent anything untoward from happening with the captain, but to keep Harrow’s temper in line. There was a lot riding on their being at court, and the unfamiliar atmosphere with lack of proper procedure rankled Harrow’s nerves more than anything on the Ninth ever could. 

Harrow cut herself off when Ortus entered, and now she counted backwards from twenty. Her eyes closed, her breath struggling to even out. 

When she opened her eyes, Captain Deuteros was still there, a satisfied smirk in her eyes but not extended to her mouth. “I came for what I wanted,” the captain said, and Harrow wondered what that could possibly have been. “I’ll see myself out.”

When the door closed again, Harrow counted backwards from fifty. She sat down, the urge to blast her feelings into the air intense. 

“We’ll get through this, my lady,” Ortus said from the corner. “We’ll have to.” His sad eyes tried to be supportive, but they just looked without hope. He wasn’t the one that had to marry anyone, but his opinion on Harrow’s ability to find a suitable match was writ across his face. 

Harrow said nothing in reply, but picked up the necromancy book she set aside. She was barely ten pages into it when they were graced by the presence of the Third: both princesses and their cavalier the prince. Harrow greeted them, they introduced themselves, and then they made themselves at home. Conversation with them was stiff, but Harrow had Ortus in the corner to remind her of what was at stake. 

If the Ninth could spare some money on refreshments for guests, Aiglamene would have said so. As it stood, most of their remaining funds were going towards their upcoming garden party. Which meant that Harrow pretended to forget her manners. Before Prince Tern could call out Harrow on it, The Sixth arrived. 

Master Warden Palamedes Sextus and his cavalier Camilla the Sixth came in grey with sunny dispositions. Having missed the opening gala, he wanted to introduce himself to the scions and was happy to find two already present in this sitting room. Almost immediately when introductions were finished, the Master Warden asked Harrow about the use of necromancy on the Ninth, and that conversation was like a breath of fresh air. The only member of the Third to participate was Ianthe; they did not stay long after the Sixth arrived. Crown Princess Coronabeth, bored with necromancy despite being a necromancer herself, dragged her cavalier and twin sister out the door, but not before Ianthe announced her intentions to see Harrow later. 

Alone with the Sixth, Ortus attempted to engage the Sixth cavalier in a conversation about poetry. Camilla indulged this line of conversation, but Harrow couldn’t help but notice that she and Camilla kept meeting each other’s eyes. It made Harrow’s stomach curl, and Camilla’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink. Despite this, company with the Sixth was much more pleasant than company with the Third. At least with the Sixth, Harrow did not feel like prey. 

* * *

The celestial event to watch this season was a triple eclipse, happening around noontime, and the best place to watch the show was the open ended (and larger than life) gardens of the Third House. Decorations remained below eye-level and were celestial themed—moons and asteroids and stars and constellations of the pre-Resurrection gods, all made with pastel-colored flimsy and hung with string. The shrubbery bloomed with white flowers, which only added to the general aesthetic. Everyone, upon arrival, was given a pair of specialized glasses with which to watch the event. Everyone was also expected to arrive at least two to three hours beforehand so they could get adequately drunk for it. 

Harrow arrived unaccompanied, with her cavalier and captain as retainers, and immediately regretted leaving the Ninth, ever. At least twice as many people occupied the gardens than still lived on the Ninth; Harrow was intimidated and didn’t know how to handle it. She dipped her head to the hostesses, who made their greeting with the Ninth shorter than anyone else, and Harrow indulged that for the sake of limiting her interaction with them. She drifted over to a quiet corner of the gardens, her cavalier and captain free to go wherever they wished, and waited for her stomach to settle before getting something to eat. She was just finishing a buttered croissant when Palamedes drifted over with a small posse that included someone in a wheelchair. 

The chaired individual introduced herself as Lady Dulcinea Septimus, Duchess of Rhodes, and Harrow asked if she remembered their introductions at the Fifth House gala the previous week. 

“I’m afraid there seems to be a doppelganger of me somewhere,” Lady Septimus said. “You are not the first to say so, and I would much rather we meet face to face to settle things the old fashioned way.”

Her cavalier, a hulking man in a green suit and a metallic rose on the pommel of his rapier, nodded in agreement. He seemed excited at the prospect of a proper duel for his necromancer’s honor, and Harrow wished she could count on Ortus’s enthusiasm if the Ninth's honor were ever jeopardized in such a way. 

Camilla sat next to Harrow, her cheeks pink from what Harrow assumed was the sun, bright on this cloudless day. She fawned over Harrow like she didn't know what to do, and Harrow found it off-putting to have someone constantly ask if she needed more tea or another croissant. Eventually, sensing her discomfort, Sextus asked his cavalier to calm down. 

Harrow, for her part, did a lot of listening to the general conversation. She learned about the state of affairs at Rhodes, at the Library on the Sixth, about the younger siblings of Dulcinea and the other scholars on the Sixth. When asked questions about her family or where she came from, Harrow gave very short responses, if she responded at all. Worryingly, her companions accepted these answers and learned quickly to avoid these lines of inquiry. The Duchess studied Harrow with a smirk and a squint that pierced Harrow's defenses, making the black vestal even more discomfited. 

Several moments before the big event, Princess Ianthe asked Harrow for a promenade around the gardens. It did not feel like a request Harrow could refuse, even though she wanted to. But it was rude to say no to the party’s hostess. 

Harrow couldn’t say why she disliked the Princess of Ida so. When separated from her twin sister, Princess Ianthe shone like a polished bronze sconce with a weak candle. Beautiful at the right angle, but the beauty was ruined when she opened her mouth to drawl about the dress on some lesser noble or the pitiful state of the flowers in the garden. Harrow knew she would have appreciated the triple eclipse more if she were back at the table with the Sixth and Seventh. 

For the sight was really a wonder to behold. Dominicus was barely visible from the Ninth, and any eclipse-like occurrences were more like transits than eclipses. Not that the Ninth had any moons worthwhile for such events. The sky was never a curiosity on the Ninth, which was mostly underground anyway, save for the snow leek fields and the one bay reserved for supply shuttles. But a triple eclipse! The Fifth had so many moons it made Harrow’s head spin thinking about the school children memorizing all those names (over fifty!) and more than half of them were unoccupied. 

Three of the largest ones happened to be passing in front of the sun at this noontime, and with all three, the sky faded to sunset colors. Muted violets mixed with neutral yellows and oranges, and stayed that way for several minutes as Dominicus hid away behind the first moon. Harrow watched the sky for the second moon, special glasses on her nose to protect her eyes. Watching Dominicus contorted into a crescent shape as though attempting to stay visible, Harrow felt she could relate as she stood beside the muted Princess of Ida. As though the princess were the moon and Harrow was Dominicus losing the battle for astral dominance. For the third moon, Harrow pretended that she wasn’t with the princess at all. She took two steps forward, and was grateful that Ianthe did not step to meet her. Harrow watched Dominicus disappear a third time, admired the colors of the horizon while it was gone—it really was subliminal—and watched the nearest star reappear for a third and final time. 

The garden applauded. From right next to her, across a single garden hedge, Harrow heard a distinctive curse from a voice she recognized as Her Imperial Majesty. She looked over and saw she stood beside the Undying Daughter herself. Somehow, by complete accident, Harrow watched the third eclipse side by side with Her Divine Highness! 

“That was quite a show, was it not?” Her Divine Highness said. Harrow didn’t know to whom the Undying Daughter spoke until she turned her head to the Reverend Daughter. “Did you enjoy it, Reverend Daughter?” 

Her Divine Highness looked absolutely ridiculous with those glasses on her nose, which failed to hide the wide-eyed and earnest expression of the Emperor’s only child. 

Harrow swallowed, uncomfortable under that gaze. Realizing she looked just as dorky with the glasses, useless now that Dominicus returned to its full brightness, Harrow removed them. This turned out to be a bad idea because now Her Divine Highness could see Harrow’s eyes. But it was too late to put them back on, so Harrow kept them off. 

“Yes,” Harrow said, truthfully, because she couldn’t just snub Her Divine Highness. “I didn’t know the sky would change colors.” 

“Did it?”

“Yeah.” But Harrow found she lost her words. She didn’t want to wax poetic about the experience because she was still processing it. And she didn’t want to process it with Her Divine Highness, who still rankled Harrow’s hunches after their last encounter. 

Harrow’s poor conversation skills remained unnoticed thanks to the Cohort companions for Her Divine Highness. The Second called to their charge, and Her Divine Highness left Harrow behind with the Princess of Ida, who observed the interaction with a smirk as though planning something nefarious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon seeks intel. Harrow finds partying overwhelming.

_ (excerpt from Lady Whistledown’s latest) _

_ There appears to be something brewing between the houses of the Seventh and Ninth. Though the Reverend Daughter and Duchess of Rhodes spent most of the morning at the same table in friendly conversation, their cavaliers were seen having a heated discussion by the refreshments. The Ninth cavalier showed more emotion in one conversation than his necromancer displayed in almost three weeks—and it looked like the Ninth cavalier’s version of anger is haughty and accompanied by a sneer. Most curious was the friendly expression on the Seventh cavalier.  _

_ I cannot parse it, dear reader, but I am watching them closely!  _

_ If that is not enough, dear reader, the main gauche of the opening gala—the potential courtship between the First and Ninth scions—did not happen at the afternoon garden party. The Ninth spent the entire eclipse beside Princess Ianthe Tridentarius. Such scorn to Her Divine Highness! When Her Imperial Majesty emerged from the gardens after the eclipses, she did not look pleased.  _

_ Did the Ninth scorn the First in addition to the Seventh? I would not be surprised if a betting pool started for which house the Ninth can upset next! _

  
  


* * *

For once, Gideon woke up early enough to take breakfast in the dining room. Her namesake, Gideon the First, already sat at the table, his nose in a tablet which meant he was busy with some Cohort report Gideon wouldn’t be privy to even if she asked. The sight of Junior at the breakfast table surprised him, though, as noted by the tone of his voice and the miniscule twitch of his left eyebrow. 

“You’re up early,” said Gideon the First as though any change in Gideon’s schedule meant anything besides trouble. To be fair, it was usually a correct assessment. 

“Early night,” Gideon said. The garden party broke up in the middle of the afternoon, and while a lot of other attendees probably got dinner and reconvened for what the Third called “the real party,” Gideon didn’t attend. She instead went to the cavalier training grounds and taught the little Fourth cav a few tricks with a rapier. Then she spent the evening at the harpsichord back home, which Senior must not have heard. 

The latest Whistledown sat atop the morning mail, and she took it and scanned it as she sat opposite her namesake with a plate of cold sausages, fruit, and toast. Her eyes narrowed when her name was finally mentioned, less so than the Ninth (which was good) but the way Whistledown wrote about the Ninth nagged at the back of Gideon’s mind. 

“Any plans for today?” asked Senior. 

Junior didn’t answer right away, her mind lost in thought. She thought about how she came to the First, and how she never understood why people knew who her father was. 

“So the Ninth,” Junior replied. Senior set the tablet on the table. His green eyes looked unnatural in his brown face, but Junior grew up with them and they will forever represent stability and kindness. Senior lacked Pyrrha's expressiveness, but he always answered questions truthfully. Always considered Gideon's feelings in major decisions. Always preferred lessons over discipline for discipline's sake. “How old was I when I was found?” Gideon asked. 

“About eighteen months,” Senior said patiently. “Give or take.” 

“Who was the one who sent the message?” 

This was a familiar line of questioning between them. Gideon used to ask this incessantly as a child, less so as a teenager, but the presence of the Ninth reminded Gideon that there was another angle about her mysterious origins she had yet to look at. She kicked herself for taking so long to realize that this was her opportunity to gather more clues, to turn her reluctant presence at Koniortos Court into something worthwhile. 

Senior’s patience remained at a respectable limit. The only time Gideon really tested that was when she led a small cabal on a secret mission and nearly got everyone involved killed. She didn’t, but only by the grace of Senior’s sudden arrival. It was the only time she saw him really lose his temper. And the only time she saw his Lyctor regenerating powers used to an alarming extent. Gideon had toilet duty for almost six months, but that was more of a formality. The real punishment was the lecture she got once everyone was home safe (and the brief image of Senior’s exposed insides permanently burned into her brain). 

Her Cohort friends, the Second included, always said that Senior looked two breaths away from completely losing it. It took Gideon years to realize that was a mask he wore only for the Cohort; it commanded respect and fear and a healthy dose of obedience. Senior’s face always relaxed around Junior, as though it reminded him of someone. 

“Priamhark,” Senior said, in answer to Gideon’s question. “The Reverend Father. He sent a message to your father, and your father sent me to pick you up. I took you to the Mithraeum, where you lived until it was time to hire tutors.” 

He didn’t say where she was tutored (the Fifth at first and then the Sixth for some more specialized subjects) or at what age she was finally allowed to enlist (thirteen). He did not roll his eyes or say that she knew all of this already. He did not remind her that she lived a good life and should be happy for it. Even though he never said those things, Junior felt them linger at the tip of his tongue. Senior never explicitly repeated the words of Gideon’s father, but it was very easy imagining him doing so. 

Gideon listened to Senior regardless. She ate her sausages, not really looking at anything. There was a hamster running in a wheel in her brain, and she knew Senior could hear it squeaking away. She didn’t say anything further, but he could probably guess her plans for the day regardless. 

* * *

The Ninth was to host the next event. Under the belief that showing off her necromantic competency would win the interest of some potential suitors, Harrow thought to command some skeletal tableaus in the back garden for the guests’ entertainment. She walked there now, practicing, observing her work. The sun was bright so she wore her veil, her gloves, simple work trousers and a shirt. Without the veil, she looked like a common laborer. Ortus had asked if she thought about what others would think if they came to see her in such a display. 

“What if someone comes to see  _ you _ ?” Harrow had snapped before lowering her veil and walking to the garden, a sack of bone chips in hand. If Ortus knew something about social decorum that she didn’t, he had not been forthcoming with it. 

Now she settled her nerves with necromancy. Unlike social interaction, this was something she knew. She cordoned off five sections of the garden for her tableaus and filled them with handfuls of bones. Then she took out her journal where she had been taking notes about the scenes she would display and got to work. 

Some time later—Harrow couldn’t tell the time by the movement of the gas giant and its moons, but they all certainly moved—she had three tableaus on display and was trying to figure out how much it would take to make all three move at the same time. The bloodsweat at her brow felt comforting. It meant she focused on something that was not the reason for their being here. From the house, she heard Captain Aiglamene shout something, but she was too fixated on making her skeletons move asynchronously to listen. But she heard footsteps on the gravel footpath and then someone whistled. 

“This is really impressive work, Reverend Daughter!”

Harrow froze and almost lost her constructs right there. Her eyes had been closed to better center her thanergy. When she heard that voice, she opened them, clenched her fists, and temporarily stopped breathing. 

Crouching beside the nearest tableau—the one meant to showcase Mattias Nonius in an epic duel—was the Undying Daughter. She was out of her Cohort uniform, which she must only don for parties, and wore casual trousers and a plain shirt that probably cost more than Harrow’s entire wardrobe. A single diamond stud in her ear twinkled in the sunlight, eye catching against her brown skin; when Her Divine Highness turned her smile on Harrow, it twinkled like her earring. 

Harrow clenched her fists harder so she wouldn’t lose the tableaus. They all stopped moving. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, Reverend Daughter,” Her Divine Highness said, standing up. “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions?” 

Harrow opened her mouth, but then closed it. She was about to ask how long this would take because she had things to do, necromancy to practice; then she remembered to whom she spoke and her manners barged into the situation like a meteorite from orbit. With a deep breath, Harrow crumbled her constructs with an exhale. The Undying Daughter jumped at the clacking of bones, her eyes now wide with something Harrow couldn’t name. Curiosity, maybe? With a hint of fear? 

It was surprising to realize that Harrow wanted the Undying Daughter to be afraid of her. To admire her power and . . . maybe not cower, but certainly tremble with the knowledge that Harrow had enough necromantic power to be both feared and respected in equal measure. 

Harrow smoothed the wrinkles on her shirt and trousers. “How can I help you, Your Divine Highness?”

Her Divine Highness looked around, as if expecting something else to happen. But soldiered on once that thing was not forthcoming. “It’s . . . uh . . . it’s about my birth. Or, origins? I just . . .”

Harrow froze, but Her Divine Highness couldn’t tell with the veil. Harrow’s posture didn’t change, but if Ortus or Aiglamene had been around, they would have noticed instantly the way her fingers stopped fussing and the way her shoulders got a little bit straighter. This was not a line of questioning Harrow wanted to indulge, but her mind wheeled so hard and so fast that she could barely keep up with the studderings. 

“I just know that I was found on the Ninth, and I know what that looks like from, like, the First’s side of things. I wanted to ask for the Ninth’s side. Like, where I came from and—”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

Harrow fiddled with her gloves and smoothed her shirt again. She searched for a reasonable argument to deny the Undying Daughter,  _ Her Divine Highness _ , and somehow managed to improvise one. 

“The first thing you did when we met was insult me,” Harrow said. “You apologized, for which I am grateful, but I have to admit, it still stings. Now you come to me and ask for information— _ that _ information—and believe yourself entitled to it? Just because, what, you’re the daughter of the Emperor Undying?” As if the Emperor Undying was as innocuous as some untitled Cohort lieutenant or the modiste. 

The Undying Daughter opened her mouth, but was unable to get a word in edgewise. Once Harrow was going, she was going, and not even the opening of the Locked Tomb would be able to stop her in this moment. 

“Your Imperial Majesty, I am not interested in indulging your flights of fancy. I have work to do, and I have no idea how to do it. I do not have the time to speak with you about your time on the Ninth, something I do not have a first-hand account of because I was not yet born. You will be better off asking my cavalier for such events. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a garden party to decorate.” 

Harrow turned on her heel and marched to the furthest part of the garden, where she stared down a pile of bone chips, not remembering what to do with them and forgetting her journal back by the Undying Daughter. But it was too late to march back for it now, so she remained where she was, pretending like she was concentrating, and felt the wide-eyed stare of Her Divine Highness burn into the side of her head. Moments passed. It was only when Harrow reached out a hand and assembled a skeleton for the sake of doing  _ something _ , that the Undying Daughter finally left. 

Once Her Divine Highness was truly gone, Aiglamene came out to check on her lady. 

“Her Divine Highness did not seem happy when she left,” the Ninth captain said. 

Harrow stilled her constructs, resentful that she had to answer to the old captain but long since resigned to it. “She was asking questions that were best left unanswered,” the Reverend Daughter said. 

“Secrets have value, my lady,” Captain Aiglamene said, and she did not sound as upset as Harrow thought she would be. “And Her Divine Highness has a lot she could trade for ours.” 

This was not a good line of conversation either. Harrow felt her hold on her construct tableau waiver. “What are you saying, captain?”

The captain had her face painted today, like she had been doing nearly every day since arrival, and it made her single-eyed gaze more piercing than it was on the Ninth. “I’m saying, you missed an opportunity to better your status. You know better than all of us what’s at stake for the Ninth. We collect secrets like the Sixth collects knowledge, but this far from home, those secrets become our currency.” 

“I will remind you, captain, that a lot of the Ninth’s secrets will see us executed, and then the Ninth will surely dissolve into obscurity.” 

“We’re already dissolving into obscurity,” Aiglamene said. “So maybe the question is not what you are willing to do to keep us alive, but which death would you prefer to carry with you into the River?”

* * *

And so Gideon tried again. Sort of. 

She arrived at the garden party wearing a suit rather than her Cohort uniform; she dressed to the nines despite this being an afternoon event: gelled hair, a layer of foundation to even the tones of her face, mascara to highlight her eyes, a diamond stud at her ear, a simple silver chain around her neck, and cufflinks to match. Gideon didn’t bother buttoning her shirt to the collar, letting it hang open around her neck. She liked to imagine that, if given a late-night tete-a-tete, she could wear this same ensemble minus the shirt, just the jacket, and burn down the town with how hot she looked. (She had winked at herself in the mirror before she left.) 

There was no explanation for this ensemble for an afternoon soiree beyond wanting to impress the Lady Harrowhark. Gideon wanted to see the Reverend Daughter take one look at her and swoon. It was a powerful feeling, a dangerous feeling, and Gideon savored it. 

She was disappointed when it was Ortus that greeted her at the garden gates. 

“Your Divine Highness,” Ortus said with a proper bow. 

Gideon nodded. “Ninth,” she greeted with no trace of disappointment in her voice. “No Reverend Daughter? Did she get cold feet for her own party?”

Ortus spoke like this was a rehearsed line given to all the guests. “The Reverend Daughter is managing her tableaus. It requires a great deal of focus.” 

“I’ll catch her there then. Great talking to you, Ninth.” Gideon, ultimately, had no intention of actually  _ talking _ to the Reverend Daughter. She walked into the gardens, expecting a well-to-do shindig of skeletons and wonder. Well, there were skeletons. 

The hedges surrounding the garden were unadorned. On the other end of the garden, forcing the guests to walk past the different tableaus, was a refreshment table that Gideon could see also lacked decorations from here. A smattering of tables with mismatched chairs littered close to the house. It was there most of the people mingled. The eclectic furnishings were quaint if viewed from a certain angle; Gideon thought back to her previous encounters with the Reverend Daughter, whose clothes only seemed to have changed earlier in the week as she practiced for this very afternoon. Was that the same dress and jacket from the Third’s and Fifth’s events? There were no tents to protect the guests from the sun. Luckily, the majority of the light today was the diffused reflection off the gaseous giant and its big red eye. On the First, this type of lighting would be considered “cloudy with a chance of downpour,” just without the barometric tension that precedes precipitation. 

The first lesson of spywork, according to Pyrrha, was observation. It did not do to just look at what was around you—look at  _ why _ people are doing what they are doing. Gideon said hello to several guests so far, most of them representatives from other houses rather than the scions themselves, which Gideon hoped would arrive later. Everyone was too intimidated by Her Divine Highness to carry a conversation. Most of them stayed by the tables without refreshments, shifting uncomfortably amongst themselves. It was easy to see why. 

Standing near the refreshments was an ominous figure clad all in black, her same old party dress others are bound to notice at this point, with a black veil over her face making her look like a wraith. Her gloved hands were locked in front of her; Gideon could sense the tense energy from across the garden. 

After their last encounter, Gideon had no intention of willingly approaching the Reverend Daughter. Her mind’s hamster wheel started spinning again; surely there was something to be done to give this party a little pizzazz. 

That was the moment the Fifth and Fourth arrived, dressed like they were expecting a picnic if only someone else provided a blanket and basket. Finally, some scions! Gideon accosted them right away. 

“Fourth!” The terrible teens jumped at the hail. Gideon continued, “What’s your knowledge of bone magic like? Don’t answer that, we’ll start the education now. Come with me. You don’t mind do you, Lady Pent? Thought not. Thanks! Come on.” 

Gideon noted the amused smile and calculating eye of Lady Abigail Pent, who along with her husband was giving the garden party a once over. She had housed Gideon for a couple years when she was younger, and the spirit mage never lost the ability to read Gideon like a history book even though it had been a good ten years since. Reliable Lady Pent knew Gideon was up to something, and Gideon relied on her unfailing intuition to follow along without needing to be explicit. 

Gideon dragged the Fourth teens to the nearest tableau, stationary for the moment. 

“Thoughts?” Gideon asked. 

Jeannemary looked to Isaac, who looked around at Gideon, then Jeanne, then back to the party, to the Reverend Daughter on the opposite side of the garden (where Gideon refused to look again), and then (finally) at the tableau itself. 

Two skeletons stood facing each other, femurs like rapiers, off-hands raised in the air like they didn’t know what they were doing. One skeleton wore a black sash while the other wore some unrecognizable rags. A few other skeletons littered the ground as though they had been previously killed in whatever battle this tableau represented. 

“I don’t know,” Isaac finally said. “They’re fighting?”

“Is that one supposed to be a Ninth?” Jeannemary asked, pointing to the black-sashed skeleton. 

Gideon, who seemed to have read a bit more on Ninth history, said, “I think it’s Mattias Nonius. This must be one of his epic battles.” Gideon thought for two seconds. “This must be the big battle he had with—” she stopped herself from saying Senior “—I think it was a Lyctor? Yeah, that’s one of his stories.”

“What?” That caught Jeannemary’s attention. Isaac still studied the tableau. “Who fought a Lyctor?”

“Matthias Nonius, one of the greatest cavs to come out of the Ninth House, fought a  _ Lyctor _ .” Gideon relayed the story from what she remembered from Pyrrha and Senior. Each had separate accounts, but some details overlapped. Gideon stuck with those. She had a feeling the Ninth had a very different version of events in their histoires. As she told the story, the skeletons moved in time to the telling, as though a puppet master were listening in and reacting one second behind everything Gideon said. Gideon compensated by slowing down the telling, making it more dramatic. By the time Gideon declared victory for the Ninth (Pyrrha said it was more like a draw, Senior said it was victory for the First), the other tableaus had visitors observing them. 

When Gideon approached the refreshment table for a glass of white wine, she thought she caught the eye of the Reverend Daughter from under her veil. Gideon liked to think that she got a once over from the Ninth scion, her eyes lingering on Gideon’s exposed neck and the glint of chain strategically placed here. For good measure, Gideon winked. She didn’t understand why she wanted the Reverend Daughter to want her like this, but it was a thrill to flirt with the keeper of her father’s final breath. 

Because if she kept her father’s final breath in the Locked Tomb, then that would surely spell the end for Gideon too. It was like introducing yourself to death, kissing her hand, and giving her a good twirl on the dance floor. Gideon could play with it, but she only did so because she didn’t know what would happen when death grew bored. 

The Reverend Daughter’s hands clenched, her only change in body language, and Gideon turned away with a smile. 

At some point, Ortus came out from his spot at the front gate and acted as docent for the tableaus, telling the stories of each to small groups. The Reverend Daughter made it a point to move those Ortus and Gideon stood at. The Fourth, eventually, grew bored and wandered off for refreshments. Gideon, meanwhile, met with the other scions when they eventually arrived. Judith was impressed by the construction of the tableaus. Palamedes did his geeky thing of talking about whatever it is he was geeking out about. Something about energy. He somehow acquired a small group around him, enthralled by the way he complimented the necromancy required to keep so many tableaus up and moving at once. 

Gideon noticed Camilla bring a glass of water to the Reverend Daughter, who had moved to a part of the garden away from the refreshment table. The Reverend Daughter, to Gideon’s surprise, took it and drank it under her veil. That was interesting. Another interesting thing was that Dulcinea Septimus, accompanied by her cavalier, approached the Reverend Daughter also. So maybe the Ninth scion wasn’t as hopeless as Gideon thought after all. 

Overall, Gideon thought as the crowd trickled out at the end of the afternoon, it wasn’t a  _ terrible _ party. She’d certainly attended better. The necromantic ability on display was certainly worthy of praise; really, the only thing Harrow lacked was adequate party planning skills. She could have hired a planner for that, but why didn’t she? 

Gideon wasn’t the last to leave the party, but she gave the garden a quick once over from the gate before she departed. She felt as though she missed something that would have revealed the heart of Harrow to her. It was just underneath that black veil of hers. If only Gideon could lift it away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Harrow is absolutely s e e t h i n g under her veil ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harrow pays a visit to the Seventh

_Dear Reader,_

_The season is a time for the Nine Houses to come together. For the Third and Seventh, it is a time to show off, no matter who is hosting. For the Sixth, it is a time to mingle with the other houses, to share knowledge and other things. But what is the season for the Ninth? If not to show off artistry or share in knowledge, then this humble writer speculates that this is a time for the Ninth to show off their necromantic skills._

_Except the Ninth’s garden party, when compared to the parties that came before, was unremarkable. The Ninth, or perhaps just the Reverend Daughter as her retinue of retainers is extremely limited, gambled too much on the admiration of her constructs to pay attention to things like decoration. And while the skill to hold and move so many constructs with the precision and dexterity on display at the party is truly a remarkable feat, the rest of the party was lacking in music, food, and decor._

_In fact, attending the Ninth garden party felt like attending a museum. Ortus the Ninth acted as docent for the afternoon, telling the stories behind the tableaus for the guests, and sometimes quoting Ninth poetry to accompany the tableaus._

_Reverend Daughter Harrowhark barely spoke with her guests—while this humble writer understands the concentration necessary to necromancy, perhaps it would have been better for her if—_

* * *

Harrow stopped reading when the autocarriage pulled in front of the estate house of the Seventh. The door opened on its own, allowing Harrow to alight onto a gravel driveway present at every other house estate besides her own. She reigned in her jealousy, hidden behind paint and her veil, and used her fingers to crunch on the pamphlet she held in her hands. It came with the mail in the morning as it always did after a society event. She tried not to let it affect her. 

In a window at the front of the large house, Harrow saw the faces of three children, at least one of which looked old enough to know better. They didn’t catch her staring back, but they were obviously staring at the novelty of a black vestal that came to their residence. Harrow felt her stomach crawl and tried to ignore it.

“Reverend Daughter! Hello!” 

The man who greeted her was Protesilaus Ebdoma, cavalier primary of the Seventh. From a distance and outside of his formal cavalier clothes, he did not look as upsetting as he did up close at the society events. The sleeves hid his muscles (somewhat poorly, but it was better than nothing) and the pale color complimented his complexion. He was a handsome fellow, Harrow supposed, and his smile in this moment was friendlier than anything Harrow encountered on this lonely moon of a place. 

“Hail to the cavalier of the Seventh,” Harrow greeted. “Hail to the scion. Hail to the Seventh House.” 

The Cavalier's smile tightened. Protesilaus the Seventh led her inside the estate, through a foyer with a ceiling as high as the building’s two storeys. Harrow refused to look up, refused to acknowledge that what she had was so little compared to what is presented here. At her residence, she could pretend that the others lived in the same level of comfort. Here, the stark reality curb stomped that comfortable notion. 

She followed Protesilaus through a hallway paneled in fake wood and lined with portraits of what must have been Seventh necromancers and their cavaliers going back generations. There was somehow natural light this deep into the house, casting a golden glow on the gilded picture frames and wall panels that Harrow marveled at. Finally, they came to a small room towards the back. Protesilaus announced Harrow as she entered. 

The room was smaller than Harrow expected, given the rest of the house. Simple. Two walls were taken up by bookshelves, only half of which held books, the other half dominated by ceramic knick-knacks and novelties. A couch faced a large window on a third wall, and the window presented the green gardens of the Seventh estate as though it were a backdrop on a stage. No less than two gardeners tended to the rose bushes with the care of people who truly enjoyed what they did. Sitting in her wheelchair at a table in front of the window was Dulcinea Septimus. She smiled her sweet, elven smile when Harrow entered and bobbed a quick nod of her head. 

This invitation to visit the Seventh had surprised Harrow when she received it at her garden party. Dulcinea expressed an interest in bone magic, though Harrow suspected then and she definitely suspected now that was just a ruse to get Harrow to visit. Well, it worked. Here was Harrow, and there was the Duchess of Rhodes, and she really had a sweet smile. 

“Thank you, Pro,” Dulcinea said. “Hello, Harrowhark. May I call you Harrowhark? I don’t want to presume familiarity.”

Behind her, Protesilaus left the room and closed the door as he did. 

“You may call me Reverend Daughter,” Harrow said. Then, realizing she liked the sound of her name on Dulcinea’s lips, “or Harrowhark.” 

“And you may call me Dulcie. Come and join me.” She tapped the top of the table with her fingertips. Harrow crossed the room to join her and sat in the chair next to the duchess. “Pro is getting us some tea, and we have a couple more guests arriving this afternoon. Though I am not sure when we can expect them. Oh, is that the latest Whistledown? Nasty woman, isn’t she?”

“H-Horrendous,” Harrowhark said, though her voice was barely audible and had to climb over a boulder in her throat to come out. Pushing the throat boulder made her eyes water. She tried to tramp it down, and she succeeded. She thought. But Dulcinea—Dulcie—noticed something despite the veil. 

“May I see this?” the Seventh scion asked, fingertips brushing the Whistledown pamphlet still clutched between Harrow’s fingers. Harrow relinquished it. It felt better to have Dulcie see everything now than later, when Harrow would be unable to defend herself against the crimes written therein. 

Or maybe she already knew what it said. Dulcie placed the pamphlet in her lap and rolled herself to the fireplace, where she ripped the pamphlet into kindling and tossed it on the incendiaries, to burn the next time the fire was lit. Then she rolled to the bookshelf on the far wall, her eyes scanning the titles until she found what she was looking for. She stood up and pulled out a small book from a shelf above her head, then sat back down and rolled back to her place next to Harrowhark. A thin sheen of sweat glinted across Dulcie’s brow when she returned. 

The act of ripping up the pamphlet alone shocked away the threat of tears. And the book Dulcie set in front of her was equally as shocking. _The Necromancer’s Marriage Season_ the title read. Harrow didn’t pay attention to the name of the author—the cover featured two women in blouses and corsets, their necks and ample cleavage exposed and yet they were still locked in a passionate embrace. Their hair flew in opposite directions, as though they were caught in a very dramatic wind storm. 

“I have a small proposition,” Dulcie said. “Let’s sit quietly for, I don’t know, an hour or so? I’ll be here, watching the garden, and you can read this lovely novel on the couch where I won’t see you. It’s my favorite, by the way.” 

“It’s a . . . .”

“A romance, yes! I had Pal read it once ages ago and we disagree on the love interests. It would be lovely to get your opinion on it.”

It was a ploy, Harrow knew, but she couldn’t find the motivation behind it. As she thought about it, Protesilaus came in with a tea tray. He placed it on the table but did not serve, instead leaving the two necromancers to their silence. 

Harrow didn’t take any tea. She took the novel, however, and retreated to the couch, where Dulcie made good on her promise to not look back on Harrow. Untrusting, Harrow tried reading through her veil. The words were hard to make out but it wasn’t impossible. But Dulcie never once tried to turn around and Harrow feared that she would if she heard movement. So Harrow stood still, attempted to read, and found that, once she got over herself, she desired a more relaxing pose. 

With a sigh she hoped was inaudible, she pulled off her veil, took off her gloves, and set them both beside her. Then she could read comfortably, her back against the back of the couch, which was more comfortable than the one in the sitting room at her residence. 

Fiction had always been a lost cause for the scion of the Ninth. Her life was supposed to mean something, and that meant rigorous academic study—most of it initiated by Harrow herself, especially after the age of twelve. She cultivated a lack of patience for the eccentricities of fiction, with the exception of Ortus’s poetry which she only ever heard against her better judgement. 

Reading a romance novel was like falling into a hole when she wanted to hide. It was an escape from everything around her, and Harrow found that it was easy to get lost in. The characters, for lack of a better term, popped off the page and into Harrow’s head, their dynamics as authentic as her interactions with Ortus or Dulcie or Her Divine Highness. Harrow turned paged after page, everything else falling to the wayside, her mind lost in a (frankly) ambiguous setting Harrow assumed to be Rhodes, which she never bothered to imagine before. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered outside of the page; not the couch where she sat, not the necromancer still observing the gardens, not the impending guests coming any second now, and certainly not the fate of the Ninth House. 

It was a little mind-blowing, knowing this type of experience with reading existed at all. 

Then there was a knock on the door and Protesilaus announced the entrance of Lady Abigail Pent and Sir Magnus Quinn. They greeted Dulcie like they were old friends, then did the same for Harrow. Once everyone was settled, the necromancers took up the table by the window, where Dulcie talked about the rose bushes in the garden, corrected often by Protesilaus who was a better green thumb. 

In the back of her mind, Harrow kept thinking about Ortus and social faux pas. She completely forgot that her veil and gloves lay on the armrest of the couch behind her where the cavaliers sat and exchanged jokes. Then Abigail asked the worst question anyone could ever ask. 

“Something troubling you, Reverend Daughter?”

Harrow started. But it was a direct question and that required direct responses. “Oh, um. I was just thinking about Ortus. I didn’t know if he was invited to this as well.”

The cavaliers perked up at this, like birds who spotted an interesting bug to play with. “Would he like to join us?” Magnus asked. 

Harrow couldn’t bring herself to turn around. “I don’t know,” she said in the direction of the table. “He might. He’s at the Ninth residence right now.”

“Seventh, my man,” Magnus said, “shall we recruit the Ninth into our escapade?”

Protesilaus replied, “I hear the Ninth is a poet in his own right and would love his opinion.”

“That’s settled then. Dear, would you mind if we accosted the Ninth cav?”

“I take issue with the word accost in this instance,” Abigail said. “I think I can hold my own if one of these ladies decides to do away with me.”

A beat, which Harrow didn’t know how to interpret until Dulcie said, “I’ll be fine, Pro. Mia and the children are around if I need anything.” Then the Seventh scion shooed the cavaliers out of the parlor. Their footsteps could be heard through the house. Abigail waited patiently for them to disappear completely before starting a new line of conversation. 

“The Fourth is hosting a masquerade next,” Abigail said. She sipped her teacup mischievously; the pause added suspense to the question. She spoke like she knew how to play with drama and enjoyed doing so. “Do you ladies know what you will be wearing for a costume?”

Dulcie smirked. "You'll have to wait and see for that one," she said with just as much mischief as Abigail. 

Harrow didn’t know. Her eyes followed Abigail’s to Dulcie’s, but then Dulcie looked at Harrow. Abigail looked at Harrow. And Harrow was caught between two predators licking their lips to share the prey. Engaging would mean admitting the Ninth’s lack of finances, wouldn’t it? So maybe it would be best if she said nothing. Harrow reached a (trembling) hand for her teacup but put it back when it rattled. 

"Excuse me," she muttered as she stood up. Harrow walked to the fireplace, her back to the table and window, and stared at the shreds of the Whistledown pamphlet. She felt the stares of the necromancers in their silence and thought she could smell the judgement in it. It was thick like the tea and came with hints of sandalwood and rose. Whistledown smelled like fresh ink from the printers. From the remains of the pamphlet, Harrow saw the word _unremarkable_ and knew that she wouldn’t find a wife if she was. But that was all she felt. Unremarkable in her parties, the victim of gossip everywhere, the object of the Undying Daughter’s hate or (even worse) indifference—Harrow distressingly couldn’t tell. 

The weight of her House threatened her straight-backed posture. If Harrow couldn’t come back with the means required to keep it going, then she might as well not come back at all. She knew how to revive her home, and finding the tools to do so was an impossible task. 

She was lost in the woods and the trees had glaring eyes. Their roots tripped her and grew around her shoulders to hold her down when she fell. 

_Unremarkable_

Then, on another scrap,

_Lacking_

“Dulcie, do you feel up for a trip to the modiste?” Lady Pent asked loudly. 

“I would absolutely love some fresh air,” the duchess replied. 

“Reverend Daughter?”

Harrow cleared her throat. It wasn’t enough but she felt her old habits from the Ninth return. Tamp down the emotions. Let no one see. 

“I will have to pass, Lady Pent. Thank you for the invite.”

A beat. When Lady Pent spoke again, she did so with the authority of a monarch. “Reverend Daughter, I would like to give you a gift. Don’t insult me by refusing.”

Harrow didn’t know how to handle that. She didn’t mean to reveal her vulnerability by turning to face Lady Pent. But Lady Pent was maternal and authoritative and everything Harrow’s mother was not. Her comfort was discomfiting and this kindness was unwarranted. If Harrow accepted, what debt would she owe the Fifth? She already didn’t know how to repay the Fifth for use of the Ninth’s residence. If she didn’t, what revenge will befall her? Harrow was in orbit around a moon, and Lady Pent was an asteroid aiming directly for her. 

“Okay,” Harrow said, unconvincing. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The gift was very generous. Harrow stood on a small platform with the modiste—a person of indeterminate gender with salt-and-pepper colored hair in a tight plait down their back—knelt at her ankles, pinning the hem of a broad circle skirt. In black, of course, because Harrow refused any other color. The modiste had almost argued against the choice of colors, a roll of fabric in their arms in the same swirling blue-and-white patterns of the gas giant’s poles, until Dulcie put a stopper to it. She was very firm when she wanted to be, Harrow was surprised to learn. 

That was when they first entered the shop. It has been at least an hour since, and this was the third and final dress Lady Pent was purchasing for the Ninth. Harrow wore her veil, her hidden eyes looking at her reflection in the tri-fold mirror. 

The dress was more extravagant than anything she owned on the Ninth, and Harrow was self-consciously aware that it was the most expensive thing she’s ever worn. The skirt wasn’t even that wide, but it swished even as she stood still—the modiste’s deft movements with the pins somehow also showing off what this dress would look like on the dance floor. The bodice was tight and had two layers. The first layer featured a plunging neckline that emphasized Harrow’s shoulders, the second layer was black chiffon to her neck and sleeves that were tight until they bellowed from her elbows to create a bird-like effect. 

Dulcie and Abigail could be heard in the next room, cooing over accessories (to be purchased by Dulcie, if Abigail was handling the dresses). 

Harrow didn’t know what to do with this kindness. Was it kindness? Or were they setting her up for failure somewhere down the line. She’d be going over every stitch and seam as soon as she was alone with them in her bedroom. Or what if these were the wrong types of dresses to wear to the upcoming soirees? What if both the Fifth and Seventh spent copious amount of money just to humiliate the Ninth? 

Dulcie rolled into the room as the modiste finished with the hem. She had a giant dead bird in her lap, black and feathery that caught the light with an oily sheen. 

“Try this on,” she instructed Harrow, an excited gasp in her voice. Her brow still had a thin sheen of sweat on it, and her cheeks were flushed. Harrow kind of worried for her health, but Dulcie’s enthusiasm (and possible denigration) swept away any concern. Dulcie tossed the feathery thing to Harrow, who caught it, dropped it, and took it from the modiste who picked it up and simply handed it to her. 

It was a shawl. Harrow turned it this way and that, trying to find the proper way to wear it. Once she did, she draped it over her shoulders. 

The effect was almost immediate. Without the shawl, she looked like she wanted to give away the proverbial farm (the farm being the entirety of her torso). With the shawl, Harrow was suddenly the waspish widow that inherited her late-spouse’s estate, the cruel matron of a carnal sex dungeon, the evil queen in a cinematic and dark fairy tale. Harrow’s shoulders straightened when she donned the shawl. 

In the mirror, Dulcie’s eyes brightened. She turned to the doorway to the other room. “Abby! The bird mask!” 

It would take several more minutes to get the costume looking like it would for the upcoming ball, and when it was, all Harrow could think about was using it to bring the Undying Daughter to heel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For funsies, have some [Regency AU fanart](https://quatredraws.tumblr.com/post/621823784931999744/a-sketchdump-because-this-is-all-stuff-ive-wanted) :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masquerades are the sexiest thing alive and you cannot tell me otherwise.

Technically, the masquerade was hosted by the Fourth, but it was held back in the Fifth’s ballroom, with the checkerboard floor tiles, crystalline chandeliers, and giant window overlooking the ton and the gas giant looming in the sky. The ferns were removed, replaced by pots of bulbous flowers that were either made with metal or coated with metallic paint (or both). Links of chain wrapped in tastefully tattered sashes in a rainbow of bejeweled colors hung from every doorway, nook, window, and picture frame. Broken skulls smiled at the apexes. The whole room had an ominous aesthetic, both mysterious and definitely in-line with whatever the Nine Houses were up to several centuries prior. There was one place that kept modern conveniences: one end of the refreshment table had a chocolate fountain, and the other had a tower of finger sandwiches, with a display of charcuterie and cocktails in-between. The orchestra in the balcony played in a minor key, adding a layer of mystery and enchantment to an already sexy getup. 

Greeting their guests at the door, the Fourth dressed in tattered regalia that was fashionable 500 years ago, with chains at their wrists and ankles and throats. They spoke like teenagers attempting the vernacular of 500 years ago and utterly failing at it every other phrase. It was the thought that counted, and everyone played along. 

Gideon loved their costumes. They loved Gideon’s costume. She didn’t even need to say the passphrase; they let her waltz right in. 

The party was already bustling with guests; awath with wide-brimmed hats and full-face masks and garish colors that made Gideons eyes sore. Not that she wasn’t contributing to the mess. Gideon took her dress uniform and every single piece of jewelry in the First House estate (which was a surprising amount) and lined the hems with metal. She took one of the pearlescent cloaks her father favored and used it to line a cape of navy blue. Her mask and breeches were green. And all throughout her person was gold and gold and gold and gold. 

Gideon had no idea what she was dressed as. She went into this costume without a plan and it came out as flashy as she could make it. Senior looked a little nervous letting Gideon be seen in public like this, which meant it was perfect. Or maybe he was just worried about the state of the dress uniform. It wasn’t like Gideon had three more of them just lying around or anything. Those fit better too. Gideon purposefully bastardized the uniform that was one size too small—all the better to show off her muscles, of course. The mask was a plain, white thing that covered everything except her mouth. It’s neutral expression was the creepiest thing Gideon had ever seen as a child. 

By a miracle unrelated to her birthright, Gideon managed to dip a marshmallow into the chocolate fountain and eat the whole thing wholesale without getting any chocolate on herself (suck it, Pyrrha). She still had her mouth full when she saw the Reverend Daughter standing off to the side of the dance floor, alone. It was obvious it was her—no one else would wear all-black to a colorful event like a masquerade. Her dress hugged her torso but buoyed outward at her hips, creating a false figure Gideon wanted to undo with her own hands. She had a shawl around her shoulders made of feathers that caught the light in such a way to make them look perpetually unfocused. The Reverend Daughter did not wear a veil, but her mask was lined with the same type of feathers as her shawl up her forehead and around her skull, with a nose like a crow’s beak extending inches in front of her. Even from here, Gideon could tell the Reverend Daughter still wore her face paint, the stark white of it a flash of contrast to the rest of her outfit. The skin at her neck was pale brown. 

And in that moment, Gideon knew in her gonads that the Reverend Daughter could come and kick her to her knees. The Undying Daughter, Blooming Flower of the First House would willingly go. She’d let herself get stomped on, stepped on, sat on, filleted out of her senses, so long as it was the Reverend Daughter that did everything; the only thing Gideon would be able to say would be, “Please, ma’am, can I have some more?”

For weeks afterward, Gideon would think of this moment, and then of the impossible scenario where the Reverend Daughter allowed Gideon to hide underneath her skirts, where Gideon had free access to do any number of things to the mysterious scion of the Ninth, all in the name of seeing if she could do more than curl her fingers into fists. (Which was more titillating, the daydream or the act itself?) 

Under the false assumption that Gideon’s emotions had been in more compromising situations, Gideon screwed her courage to the sticking place and squared her shoulders. She sidled beside the Reverend Daughter, mysteriously void of her retainers, and was about to say something when she remembered the marshmallow in her mouth, still somehow unchewed and unswallowed. It was by another miracle, also unrelated to her birthright, that she hadn’t choked on it already. 

“Are you going to say anything or just flail there like an idiot?” the Reverend Daughter asked. 

Gideon pointed to her mouth, still halfway through chewing, her other hand wildly gesturing something nonsensical even she didn’t understand. Point to the Reverend Daughter—all she did was stand and look pretty and the Undying Daughter lost all sense of decorum. 

“I was going to say,” Gideon said with a freshly cleared mouth, “may I have this dance?”

She held her hand to the Reverend Daughter to take. Gideon couldn’t see the eyes behind the crow mask, but she could see the flush of skin between the choker of phalanges around her neck. Gideon was flushing too; she tried not to think about it but feared her brain would flatline if she didn’t think about  _ something _ . 

Then, by the third miracle unrelated to her birthright of the night, the Reverend Daughter took her hand. 

The scion of the Ninth, it turned out, knew this one. Well, sort of. Gideon led her through the motions, and she was always a fraction of a second behind their execution. But she was a marvel with her ability to keep up with Gideon. Or maybe Gideon was slower than she should have been—the Reverend Daughter’s dress was surprisingly translucent in her neck, and Gideon with her height had a front-row ticket to the biggest peak of Nine House cleavage ever seen on the Fifth. It was a good thing Gideon wore a mask to hide her blush. 

_ Eyes on the face, _ Gideon reminded herself as the oil-slick feathers tempted her gaze elsewhere. 

“So . . .” Gideon started, then glanced once more at the Reverend Daughter’s neck. 

“So?” the Reverend Daughter shot back, her voice a bucket of ice water (albeit a welcome one). 

“About those Ninth records.” 

The Reverend Daughter bit her lip. The point of her crow’s mask pointed over Gideon’s shoulder before Gideon twirled her around twice. 

“I have conditions,” the Reverend Daughter said upon returning to Gideon’s arms. 

“Okay.” 

They turned and parted for two steps. Gideon skipped in tune to the song and in sync with the rest of the dancers. She was face-to-face with Abigail, dressed as a woodland deer from some fabled fairy tale with antlers and white spots on her form-fitting dress, who gave a conspiratorial wink. She wore face paint across her nose and brow instead of a mask. Then the dancers returned to their partners. 

“The Ninth is very private in our dealings,” the Reverend Daughter continued. “But according to my retainer, I can leverage our secrets, even access to certain records that should already be in your possession, in exchange for certain . . . favors.” 

Another twirl. Gideon wasn’t just up against the Reverend Daughter in this conversation; she had to look anywhere but the bird-like Ninth scion if she wanted to keep her wits about her. Why couldn’t Pyrrha train her for something like holding your own when your body wants to roll over to every demand? 

“Believe you me, Reverend Daughter,” Gideon said, “my birth records are something of a mystery even to the rest of the First. I’m frankly surprised they haven’t been requested before.”

“They have.” 

They stepped to the side, away from each other, and clapped twice with the rest of the dancers. Gideon recognized the Second dancing together, probably attempting to take advantage of everyone’s masks; but if Gideon could recognize the Second from across a crowded dance floor, then so could anyone else. When the dancers stepped back together, it was like watching a giant hand disrupt the dust of a colorful nebula. 

“All right then. Name your price.”

“I will not in a public place,” the Reverend Daughter said. She sounded just a touch uncertain. Her head swung back and forth so violently that Gideon grabbed the beak of the mask and held tight. The Reverend Daughter gasped. Gideon pretended it didn’t affect her. 

“You try the Undying Daughter,  _ Reverend _ Daughter. Name. Your. Price.” And the emotion behind those words surprised Gideon, but she stood by them. 

“Tomorrow afternoon,” the black vestal said. Gideon felt hot breath against her gloved knuckles and removed her hand from the Reverend Daughter’s mask. “Come to the Ninth estate. We can negotiate there.” 

“Negotiate?” Before Gideon could question further, the song came to an end. The Reverend Daughter let go of Gideon quicker than a parry and stepped back. She gave her standard courtesy nod to Gideon before walking back to the edge of the dance floor. Gideon felt her hands clench into fists at her sides, her eyes following the Ninth scion until a bubbly figure popped into her line of vision. 

“Oh, hey,” Gideon said, changing her animosity for diplomatic manners as easily as changing her jacket. “Dulcinea, was it? Duchess of Rhodes?”

Dulcinea smiled, her blue eyes as brilliant as the poles of the looming gas giant even underneath a thin mask that barely held her face. She had done something to her curly hair to make it even bigger than it had any right to be. From her back sprung fairy wings, translucent and appearing vaguely like human skin. Gideon tried not to think of that. The Duchess wore a dress that looked like multiple layers of the Emperor’s pearlescent robes sewn together. It couldn’t have been a comfortable thing to wear, knowing the fabric, but Dulcinea made it look as natural as though she’s worn it most of her life. 

“Charmed to see the Undying Daughter remembers me,” the scion of the Seventh said. She held out her hand for Gideon to kiss, which she did. 

“Not many people turn down kissing the Blooming Flower of the First,” Gideon said. “You left quite an impression.” 

“Dance with me.” Dulcinea swept Gideon further onto the dance floor, towards the back of the ballroom. She took the lead—all Gideon could do was follow. She didn’t think she would be very good at it, but it turned out, if given the right partner, she could follow anything. Dulcinea was very easy to follow. 

Turns out, the supposed second-most powerful person in all the Nine Houses liked it when other people took the lead. Who knew? 

This dance was more involved than the previous. Dulcinea knew all the moves, as did Gideon, but their movements were out of sync. Dulcinea didn’t bother waiting for Gideon to catch up, and Gideon found herself scrambling. And not in a sexy, fun way. It would have bothered her, and it did in the back of her mind, but then Dulcinea started conversing. 

“Tell me about your father, Undying Daughter.”

Gideon spun as a means to stall and still didn’t know how to answer. “What would you like to know?”

Dulcinea smiled, but it was more of a smirk. “What’s your impression of him? Is he good to you?”

Gideon shrugged, stepping aside and forward and backwards and to the side again. The tempo of this song was already allegro, but it felt twice as fast. The rest of the dancefloor was just a blur of color. A cacophony of unfocused blotches that only existed to highlight the duchess in front of her. 

“He is my father and I do not have another to compare him to. He ensures I am provided for. He expects regular updates every couple of months. Are you interested in meeting him, Duchess?”

Dulcinea’s laugh twinkled like a bell. “Goodness, no. I may be more familiar with him than you realize. I hear you have another guardian at your side. Tell me about him.”

“How do you know about my guardian?”

“The First House is not as subtle as it wants to be.” 

Gideon threw decorum out the giant window; she had aimed for the giant red eye that loomed as ominous as the skulls on the walls. She grabbed Dulcinea’s shoulders and pulled her close so their faces almost touched. To an outsider, it may have appeared intimate. Both parties knew there was a threat in the way Gideon towered over the Duchess and the snarl that poisoned her mouth. 

“What do you know of the First?” 

Dulcinea giggled, every bit as tricky as a fairy, undaunted by Gideon’s years in the Cohort and successes on the frontlines. In the back of Gideon’s mind, she noted the way Dulcinea relaxed at the threat, as though waiting for the perfect opportunity. “Undying Daughter, you may have been provided for in all the ways that mattered, but no one should grow up not knowing about their mother.”

Gideon’s grip on her shoulders must have hurt. If she didn’t have her gloves, Gideon’s knuckles would have been white with strain and Dulcinea’s shoulders would have been punctured by her nails. Dulcinea leaned in close, cheek-to-cheek with the daughter of the Emperor Undying, and said in Gideon’s ear, “Has no one mentioned why you were named Gideon in the first place?”

“What are you implying?”

“Your precious Ninth is not the only House with secrets.”

Before Gideon could ask more of her, she slipped through the First’s grasp and danced further into the dancefloor, lost among the dancers. Gideon was too distracted to really look for her. She ran her fingers through her hair and turned into the nearest empty nook. Behind her, a kaleidoscope continued turning as if nothing happened. 

It was a good twenty minutes before Judith found her. 

“Get jilted by the Seventh again?” Judith asked. She presented an air of uncaring difference, but something about the set of her shoulders and the curve of her brow betrayed a hint of sympathy. “Honestly, you might be better off with the Ninth. Marta and I have a bet about how the black anchorite is between—”

“Finish that sentence and it will be your last.” 

Gideon’s golden eyes locked with Judith’s brown ones. Judith dressed as a musketeer, Marta’s rapier at her hip and her cloak folded into a smaller square and hanging off one shoulder. She wore an old-fashioned Cohort uniform, and her mask was woven with lace—probably for better vision overall. Who knows what could happen at a masquerade, especially one managed by teenagers. Captain Judith Deuteros would not want to miss anything. 

Judith did not drop Gideon’s gaze, nor did she show any sign of conceding the staring contest. She was here for Gideon, and Gideon didn’t realize how much she needed a friend until this moment. 

“How drunk are you?’ she asked her Cohort-sanctioned babysitter. 

“Not enough,” Judith answered. 

“We should fix that.”

As they crossed the room to the refreshment table, a swath of black danced at the corner of Gideon’s eye. She looked to the dance floor to see the Reverend Daughter being twirled by the cavalier of the Sixth—Camilla, Gideon recalled from the cavalier training grounds. She was adept with a rapier but less confident on the dance floor. The Reverend Daughter seemed to show her patience though. Or maybe they were both just inept dancers. Gideon wished them a very pleasant evening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy these glorious sketches of the [Ball AU by Rochetbelle](https://rocketbelle.tumblr.com/post/642045678228488192/wanted-more-of-this-au)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inherent fear of negotiating the future

_ Dear Reader, _

_ Last night’s spectacle of a masquerade was an extravaganza you should be sorry to miss! All the compliments to the Fourth for their taste in decor and the Fifth for hosting such a rousing event. Reader, if you were not there, you missed the interior design statements of the century. The Fifth ballroom took the Masquerade Era from 500 years ago and gave it a skeletal, contemporary spin.  _

_ And the Fourth’s costumes matched their ballroom with panache. Both Fourth scion Baron Issac Tettares and cavalier Sir Jeannemary Chatur donned the tails and leggings of Masquerade-era warlords. Throughout the night, they greeted and mingled with their guests with ye olde accent of yore. And what fine accents they had! If attendees felt themselves enthralled in a magical realm of splendor and intrigue, it was all due to the efforts of the Fourth.  _

_ But what else happened during the masquerade? We all know that a lot of things can happen when identities are concealed and inner desires are free to run rampant.  _

_ Let us start with the Third scions, resplendent in feathers and bone, walking statues of the great literary classics from the infamous Third poet we all know and love. They squawked and claimed attention from everyone in that ballroom. When it came to dance partners, both were selective. Princess Ianthe took her first dance with the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth while Crown Princess Coronabeth took the Second in both her arms for a threesome that did not last to the end of the song. Looks like Princess Ianthe has her eye on the Ninth for a potential match, but the Reverend Daughter is anything but interested.  _

_ For the Ninth scion’s first dance was with Her Divine Highness, and Her Divine Highness’s first dance was with the Ninth! A most unlikely pair. Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus came dressed in her signature black but covered in feathers and donning the mask of a corvid. She was absolutely stunning—and surprisingly so, given that she has apparently been sleeping on this dress for several events. She chose the perfect night to bust it out. The dramatic twirl of her skirts complemented the flapping of her shawl as she moved across the dance floor, led along by the Undying Daughter.  _

_ Speaking of, Her Divine Highness relied upon flash and jewelry for her costume. She came as a walking mine of precious stones and bright colors, with enough flash to draw attention away from the Third. Shortly after her first dance with the Ninth, Undying Daughter Gideon Prime was whisked away by the Seventh, resplendent in faerie garb. Unfortunately, the Undying Daughter did not dance the rest of the night, though she did outdrink the Second, as well as the Fifth. Which is to say, the Fifth cavalier passed out first. Duchess Dulcinea Septimus, meanwhile, disappeared shortly after her dance with Her Divine Highness.  _

_ The Reverend Daughter spent the night on the dance floor. After her dance with the Undying Daughter, she danced a couple songs with Camilla the Sixth, then Princess Ianthe, then had a go on the arm the Fifth scion Lady Abigail Pent. When not showing off the flow of her skirts (my how they flew!), she was at the side of Master Warden Palamedes Sextus, who sadly did not grace us with his wicked moves.  _

_ The party ended well after midnight, when the chocolate fountain and finger sandwiches and barrels of spirit were gone for at least an hour. Will anyone have the energy to get out of bed before noon today? If you are reading this, the answer is surely: do not expect any attendee to wake before luncheon. This reporting comes to you from your most humble and obedient servant,  _

_ Lady Whistledown  _

* * *

Harrow was still at the breakfast table (lunch table, rather, judging by the hour), wondering where her cavalier had gotten to. He had been scarce since Harrow’s visit with the Seventh. Harrow tried to be happy for him, like Aiglamene had told her to be. It was just that this residence felt bigger and emptier without him in it. 

Then Aiglamene announced Her Divine HIghness was waiting in the sitting room. There was a slight panic as Harrow checked her face to ensure her paint was  _ properly _ applied with clean lines and no smudges. It was, according to the ever trustworthy Aiglamene, and confirmed by the mirror effervescently hanging in the hallway just outside the kitchens. Harrow would forego a veil—it was just the Undying Daughter after all—and who knew how long their conversation would last. 

Harrow dismissed Aiglamene and prepared to keep the Undying Daughter waiting so she would be on edge. But as she checked herself (again) in the mirror outside the kitchens, Harrow heard the distinctive sound of a harpsichord. The very one that sat unused in the sitting room. 

Arpeggios, Harrow noted, as though someone were warming up before seriously playing. Quick and light and compelling enough to send Harrow’s heart fluttering. No one on the Ninth could play like this. Then the music slowed, no longer arpeggios, but a gentle song with a moving tenor line and a twinkling melody in a high octave, all in a church-like minor key. It was familiar somehow. Harrow had taken vocal lessons throughout her youth, for the sake of her congregation of course, and she would admit to herself and perhaps Camilla that her musical knowledge outside of the hymnals and psalms of mass was limited. Still, she recognized the chords for this song as something long forgotten from childhood, the last musically-inclined nun had passed when Harrow was just twelve. 

Harrow came to the open doorway of the sitting room and espied the Undying Daughter, back to the door, bent over the harpsichord. Deft fingers worked the keys with a practiced and compelling grace. Harrow stood transfixed for a full two minutes, eyes on the fingers as they tickled the keyboard, the Undying Daughter oblivious. 

Then came the jarring reality of several wrong notes in a row. Harrow inhaled, not quite a gasp, in the brief silence that followed. The Undying Daughter remained oblivious to the Reverend Daughter, her focus on repeating the phrase leading to the mistake, and then making the same mistake again. Her divine mouth cursed, which was enough heresy for Harrow. 

She stepped inside the sitting room and closed the door with a sharp snap. “I am sorry to disturb such lovely playing.” She hoped  _ lovely playing _ was as sarcastic as she intended. 

The Undying Daughter did not stand up, but she did turn around and smirk. “Do you play, Reverend Daughter?”  
“I am more of a singer, myself.” And Harrow regretted revealing that trivial piece of information as soon as she realized she answered. 

The sunlight caught the golden eyes and features of the Undying Daughter; her russet hair glinted, haloed by the sheer curtains at the windows. The dark green collared shirt she wore clashed marvellously with the light blue wall paint but complemented the brown hues of her face and exposed neck. She looked stunning in the sitting room of the Ninth residence, a valuable and missing museum piece misplaced among humble drivel, eye-catching to anyone with a basic understanding of the word beauty. 

In her misinterpretation of Harrow’s expression, the Undying Daughter’s smirk grew wider and more crooked. Her golden eyes glinted with concealed mischief; it was that devious twinkle that brought Harrow back to her senses. 

But Her Divine Highness spoke first, getting right down to business. “Your favor? In exchange for the records I seek?” 

The birth records of Her Divine Highness, found on the Ninth at the tender age of one; records kept exclusively on the Ninth to conceal the Ninth’s darkest and most recent secret. Harrow crossed the room to a sitting chair by the harpsichord. Her back was to the window so she wouldn’t have to see the luminescent halo around Her Divine Highness, which was frankly quite distracting. 

To the bookshelves opposite her, Harrow said, “I am in need of a wife, and I will accept nothing less than someone who can also provide for the Ninth in either wealth or resources.” 

The Undying Daughter laughed. It came straight from her belly, but it lacked any true joy. “I am  _ not _ marrying you!” she announced with such certainty that Harrow’s stomach flipped involuntarily. 

Harrow closed her eyes and counted backwards from ten. “This is hardly a proposal,” she said through clenched teeth. Then she took another deep breath and looked the Undying Daughter in the eye. “As if I would ever propose to  _ you _ . No, I have to concede that whenever this Lady Whistledown writes positively about the Ninth, I am gifted with a string of potential suitors for the next several days. You play a vital role in this, as I’ve also noticed that your presence marks when Whistledown looks favorably upon the Ninth.”

“What are you getting at, Reverend Daughter?” Did Her Divine Highness sound unreluctant or curious? It was hard to say. 

“I need your help in finding a suitable match for the Ninth,” Harrow said. “So I can . . . provide for my people.”

The Undying Daughter stood up and crossed the room to the bookshelves. She appeared to be inspecting the titles, but Harrow knew from the way her head cocked to the side that she wasn’t reading anything there. Harrow allowed herself a glance at the Undying Daughter’s backside and the way her trousers hugged her thighs and calves, before studying the carpet at the base of the wall opposite her. She ignored the heat in her cheeks. 

“And you are displeased with the options already presented before you?” 

Harrow harrumphed. “The options so far have not proposed anything, let alone marriage.” 

“Have  _ you _ proposed anything?” 

This pierced Harrow. She looked at her ungloved fists resting in her lap, overtaken by the shadow of her torso. “If I did,” she said quietly, “would they accept because they are intimidated by me, or because they truly want me? I am more inclined to believe the former.” Then, quieter, “What can the Ninth possibly offer them to make the match worthwhile?”

Hopefully, that last bit went unheard by Her Divine Highness. Harrow felt those startlingly golden eyes boring into her; she could not feel the emotion they carried, and Harrow was too frightened to meet it. Too terrified that what she would see would be the familiar judgement and arrogance from the people on the street and in the park. The same bite as the first time they ran into each other in a ballroom nook. It was par for the course; common but still biting. Then Harrow thought of the Undying Daughter’s arrogant wink at her garden party and the way she had directed the crowd then. It took too long for Harrow to realize that Her Divine Highness had provided assistance, unprompted, and without asking for anything in return. At least at the time. Would she lord that over Harrow today or save it for a later time? 

“I’ll help you for the next three weeks.”

Harrow sputtered. “That’s not enough time!”

The Undying Daughter shrugged. “I know for a fact that you are not my only potential source for those birth records.” She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. A calculated stance. Harrow looked at a line of books just above Her Divine Highness’s shoulder. 

“I’m not?”

“No. But yours is the more interesting route. I’m already dodging obligations. This adds a little bit of fun to it.”

“Fun,” Harrow said to herself, a question. “Fun?” she repeated for the Undying Daughter’s benefit. She stood up and rounded on the daughter of the Emperor Undying, the second most powerful person in the Nine Houses, after her father. Raised in whatever luxury the Ninth could have afforded several thousand years ago, but no longer. The resale price of that handsome green shirt alone could feed the Ninth for six months. “We are not some plaything for the First. There are lives at stake and you are only doing this because it’s a  _ little fun? _ ” 

At the mention of lives being at stake, the Undying Daughter lowered her arms. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes grew wide with shock. It was horrible, the way all the fight deflated from her; one slap and she was chastised. Harrow wanted to bite and claw and sink herself into a mess of an argument, but this infuriating muscle of a divine figure was not the warrior Harrow needed. She cowed too easily to Harrow’s anger. It made her all the more frustrating. 

The Undying Daughter said, “Reverend Daughter, I—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Harrow interrupted. She spat the words like rotten snow leeks. “Don’t pretend like this is just a game to you. Is the Ninth not also your subjects? Are we so reviled that our own idols—that the Undying—the—” 

Harrow couldn’t finish. Her throat closed and her eyes burned and, to save her image, she turned away from the divine figure before her and marched passed the harpsichord to the fireplace on the far wall. She stared at the incendiaries in the pit. If fires were lit by anger, there would be one starting at her feet. Perhaps she should not have said lives were at stake. That revealed too much. What would the gossip mongers do if they caught wind of the true state of the Ninth? How much worse would her daily walks become if the people of the Fifth had more ammunition beyond Harrow’s shield? 

Harrow wore her best dress from the Ninth in preparation for the Undying Daughter, and it was only now—with those uncannily honey eyes studying her back—that she regretted the decision. This dress had made appearances at the opening gala and at two garden parties. If it weren’t for the generosity of the Fifth and Seventh, it would have also been featured the previous night at the masquerade, where she would have arrived mask-less and vulnerable and completely at the mercy of Harrow’s greatest fear. 

The more she wore it, the more she hated this dress. But it was the only thing they could salvage back at Drearburh. Crux was the only one with any sewing ability, so he fixed the hems and the seams, while Sister Glaurica taught Harrow a few basic dances and court manners. At the time, she hated the lessons, only half paid attention to them out of sheer boredom. How Harrow wished she didn’t. Now Harrow intimately understood the effects one’s reputation can have when it came to a potential suitor. No one seemed to care about anything else, and if they did, they weren’t interested in  _ marriage _ . 

Camilla seemed to care. And Harrow was fond of the Sixth cavalier. If only—

“Three weeks,” the Undying Daughter said from across the sitting room. The words rammed a rail through Harrow’s chest. “I have the records in three weeks, and I will ensure that you are given at least one proposal that can support the Ninth.”

Harrow dabbed at the moisture in her eyes and thanked the Tomb when her fingers came away void of any black face paint. She had forgotten her gloves at the lunch table. The Undying Daughter kept a respectable distance, which only infuriated Harrow further. How dare she not corner Harrow into this deal. This wasn’t how Harrow wanted this to go at all. Vulnerability to the Seventh was tolerable because Dulcie knew what it was to be at the mercy of another’s kindness. But people were willing to help Dulcie. She was sweet and a good conversationalist. Harrow had nothing to offer anyone, privately relished in everyone’s distance, and hated that the future of her house rested on something as shallow as  _ Lady Whistledown _ and her prurient pamphlet. 

She wasn’t going to lose herself in front of the Undying Daughter though. Harrow inhaled everything that wanted to come out and locked it away in a glass jar—no, the end of a steel chain, like Samael’s at the Anastasian Monument. A weapon. 

Three weeks, Her Divine Highness proposed. 

“Three weeks would take us to the ball of the Eighth,” Harrow said, her voice more solid than she felt. 

“But my assistance to you will last longer than that.”

Harrow was finally put together again. She turned around to the Undying Daughter. “What’s preventing you from running off with the records and leaving me matchless?” 

The divine eyes studied Harrow’s dress again, lingering on the hem at Harrow’s ankles, which was the hardest part of the dress to keep neat. Harrow resisted the urge to cross her arms or shift her weight. Even from across the room, those eyes were startling. 

“The lives of the Ninth,” Her Divine Highness said, heavy with gravity. As though approaching a skittish animal, she crossed the room to Harrow’s side. Her Divine Highness held out a hand; a handshake to solidify their agreement. Harrow looked at the hand rather than those eyes. Eyes like twin suns keeping Harrow in their orbit. Eyes like candles in Drearburh’s dark library. 

Her divine presence was a wall. Harrow didn’t know if she wanted to run away or take refuge under it. 

“What if it takes longer than three weeks? To get the records, I mean?” Harrow didn’t remember how her parents filed things back then, and she wasn’t sure if she could trust Crux back home to find the correct files for Her Divine Highness. Would he know which things to purposefully leave out? Could Harrow manipulate the files from here to leave out the most incriminating parts? 

The Undying Daughter lowered her hand. “Then I guess that nulls our agreement.” 

Harrow flinched. 

“Look, nothing I do will stop me from helping you.” Her Divine Highness spoke an tone that Harrow did not know how to react to. “You hold all the power here. If you want your match, you will help me. If you don’t want your match, you will not help me. I will be helping you for at least three weeks. So if you want to sit on your hands, you’ll have three weeks of imperial resources at your fingertips. Choice is yours.” She held out her hand again, the palm pale. 

This time, Harrow took it. It was—calloused? Harrow knew Her Divine Highness spent time in the Cohort and knew how to wield several weapons, but she still anticipated soft hands. The warmth was also unexpected; the grip tight like a hug. Their gentlewoman’s agreement solidified with such a simple gesture. 

“Now,” the Undying Daughter said as she let go of Harrow’s hand, “we should discuss strategy for the Seventh’s Poetry Night.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ball AU as shoujo manga](https://twitter.com/AnaKalashnikova/status/1358278668355837955?s=19%C2%A0) is the reason I have hearts instead of eyes (Art by Ana Kalashnikova) <3 <3 <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This author lacks the gift of poetry. Advance apologies to everyone who enjoys it.

The day before the poetry night, Ortus caught up with Harrow as she returned from her daily morning walk, his form a giant shadow in the bright foyer, but not imposing or threatening. Ortus carried an air of gentleness to him, friendly like the darkness behind a blackout curtain outlined by the garish morning light. Her mind was awash with thoughts of the Undying Daughter—Gideon, as she preferred, now that their strategy was set—and their plans for attending the Seventh’s event. Harrow’s head still spun with the simplicity of it. 

“My Lady,” said Ortus. “I have news.” His voice was breathy with anticipation when he spoke. He continued to wear the blacks and skull paint of their house, though Harrow wondered if it was for her benefit or because of some attachment to the faith of the Locked Tomb. Like her, Ortus has also been the recipient of charity from friends; his trousers today were of a nicer make than the ones he brought from the Ninth. 

“News?” Harrow asked, an invitation to continue. 

“The Ninth name will be attached to the Seventh event,” Ortus continued. “I have been offering advice to Protesilaus the Seventh on the structure of it, and offered assistance in the execution, and because of that he insisted that the Ninth be credited for its efforts. I apologize if this is last-minute. And if you don’t approve, I can certainly reverse things—”

“No.” Harrow’s mouth worked faster than her brain. It always seemed to with her cavalier, whom she found annoying but in the way you grow annoyed at an older brother. “No, if you have been assisting the Seventh and they offered to give you credit, then you should take the credit. It’s . . . it’s good. Right?” She was rambling at this point, her mind on how Ortus found friends so much easier than she. He had been spending a lot of time with the Seventh and Fifth cavaliers of late, and Harrow had the impression it was not all about the Seventh’s poetry night. “Your name is not the one mentioned in those awful pamphlets and you are liked with minimal effort on your part. You’ll help give us a good name.” 

There was more she wanted to say in that moment, but between this sudden feeling of fondness for her cavalier and her upcoming plans with the First, there was no way she could articulate them with any accuracy. 

Ortus visibly relaxed. “Oh, that’s good. It would have been so hard to reverse.” He paused and scrutinized his lady with his small, dark eyes. How could anyone look at that pudgy face and think it capable of anything other than kindness? He asked, “Is everything all right, Harrow?” 

Harrow sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I truly hope it will be.” 

* * *

Harrow was alone when she stepped out of the Ninth’s residence. (It still amused Gideon that the black anchorites were given the Fifth’s brightest guest house. If it was intentional, Gideon hoped it wasn’t out of malice.) Her dress, black of course, was form-fitting but draped around her thin frame in a way that emphasized her lack of curves; the effect was dazzling. Gideon had her arms crossed outside the autocarriage, and they dropped at the sight of the Reverend Daughter. Her veil and skirt were of a similar silhouette, and it looked intentional. The lady of the Ninth stopped in front of Gideon, expectant, but the spinning hamster wheel of Her Divine Highness’s mind spun sans hamster. 

“Well?” the Reverend Daughter—Harrow, now that they were supposed to be more intimate with each other—demanded. 

The hamster hastily returned and Gideon stepped aside to open the autocarriage door for her lady, muttering apologies along the way. Harrow wasn’t pleased, and Gideon rolled her eyes where she thought it would go unseen. 

The ensuing ride was just as tense, exacerbated by their silence. They sat on opposite sides of the cab, Harrow in the front; both had their arms crossed and looked anywhere but their date. Gideon’s knee vibrated from all the nervous energy. She had spent all day suffering over her appearance that she forgot to join Pyrrha in their basement training room that morning. 

(Pyrrha, upon learning that  _ Her Divine Highness Gideon Prime _ was to have the  _ Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus _ on her arm for the next social event, would not. fucking. shut. up. about it. Gideon had tried to ignore her guardian, throwing on jacket after jacket after jacket—none of which complimented the black collared shirt and trousers—and getting angrier with each one that she discarded. Until Pyrrha presented a gold chain necklace in one hand, and a handful of earrings and rings in the other. “It’s a casual event, right? Keep it simple,” was her advice. Then Gideon’s dumb mouth asked about using silver because bones are white, and Pyrrha smacked her upside the head with the chain.

“Gold is more  _ your _ color,” Pyrrha had said. “Don’t ever conform to others’ expectations. You should know this by now.”) 

“And you are certain this will work?” Harrow asked, moments before they passed the front gate at the Seventh estate. 

Is anyone certain about anything? Gideon wanted to ask in return, but her brand new Ninth House Brain Filter caught it before it could reach her mouth. She could still hear Harrow’s self-doubt from several days previous, almost too soft for Gideon to make out,  _ What can the Ninth possibly offer them to make the match worthwhile?  _ Hopefully, someday soon, Gideon’s heart would no longer break for the Ninth scion. Hopefully, Gideon’s efforts will be enough for her. 

“This will work,” Gideon said in just the right way to make Harrow narrow her eyes behind her veil. Gideon leaned forward, her elbows coming to rest on her knees. She saw Harrow’s eyes dart between the jewelry at her neck, ears, and fingers. Did the Reverend Daughter just gulp? They locked gazes. 

“We will make this work,” Gideon said in what she hoped was an assuring heaviness.

This veil must have been thinner than the others, or maybe Gideon was getting used to looking through it. She watched Harrow’s eyes soften before looking out the autocarriage window to the Seventh estate. 

Gideon sucked her bottom lip, grateful she decided against the lip gloss, otherwise it would have been totally ruined before she even got to the event. (Kept the eyeliner though. She looked hella rad in eyeliner.) 

Autocarriages dropped off their guests and hired footmen directed them around the estate to the back garden, where they were to take in a lovely display of roses along the sides that were apparently tended to by the cavalier’s children. At least according to Harrow. It was in this garden that a queue formed at the entrance to the main gardens out back. At her side, Harrow huffed at the atrocity of the queue, but Gideon took a moment to admire the rose bushes, brushing a finger against the petals of a blossom and wishing the Reverend Daughter wasn’t so adverse to color on her person. 

As they neared the entrance (this event had assigned seating and ushers, apparently), Gideon took Harrow’s hand and placed it on the inside of her elbow. Harrow huffed, and Gideon kept her hand over the Reverend Daughter’s just to make sure she wouldn’t pull it back. They exchanged a meaningful look; a reminder that Gideon had this under control. Harrow stopped fidgeting but kept the long pole up her ass. They stepped forward to be greeted by—

“Oh hello, Harrowhark!” 

“Dulcie,” Harrow said with a nod of her head. Her hand on Gideon’s elbow tensed, and Gideon brushed gloved knuckles with a thumb. The grip got tighter. 

Gideon did a double-take. The woman greeting them sat in a wheelchair, her frail body decorated with a seafoam green dress made of frills to hide her thin frailness. A blanket in a tartan pattern of green, yellow, and blue kept her legs warm. Her curly hair was pulled into a ball on the top of her head that twitched with the slightest movement. Someone wove roses in the spokes of her chair. 

This might have been the woman that made an appearance at the Ninth’s garden party, but it was definitely not the woman from the week prior. 

“What a lovely date you have.” This slyness was certainly similar to the attitude of the Duchess that had pulled Gideon onto the dance floor, who had also refused to kiss Gideon at that first opening gala. There was something off about it. It was friendlier. Less familiar with Gideon and the House of the First. 

Harrow’s hand squeezed Gideon’s elbow. “Got lucky this time, I guess” the Reverend Daughter said self-consciously. 

“You sure did!” The duchess winked at Gideon. “You take care of her this evening, Your Imperial Majesty. Break her heart, and we’ll besmirch your name all night in a private event, regardless what the late night will do to me the next day.” 

Gideon knew she was being rude in not saying anything. There was no diplomatic way to say “Remember when we danced at the masquerade?” particularly because  _ masks _ were involved. And extensive use of legs. Were these not real memories? Did Gideon hallucinate them? Was Gideon hallucinating now? 

Then Harrow’s nails dug into the soft tissue at Gideon’s forearm. And it  _ hurt _ , even through the layers of cloth from the gloves and Gideon’s shirt. Not a hallucination then. 

“Please excuse me,” Gideon said. She grasped the hand of Duchess Septimus and lightly brushed her knuckles against royal lips. “I was a bit . . . overwhelmed by such beauty.” 

“Oh, please.” The Duchess of Rhodes politely returned her hand to her lap, a bashful smile at her lips. Her eyes twinkled with the amusement of someone who saw through a thinly veiled ruse but won’t bother saying so. She lifted an eyebrow in a way that congratulated Gideon on her save. Her next words were to the approaching Fifth cavalier, dressed in a kilt of Seventh green and a loose-fitting white shirt. “Please give the best seats available to the Reverend Daughter and Her Imperial Majesty, Fifth. Somewhere front and center. And make sure they stay there until the finale.”

“If Dulcie had her way, no one would even leave their seats for the next two hours,” Magnus said jovially as he led them away. Behind them, Dulcie greeted the next guests in line. 

The garden was littered with tables and chairs, some of which already filled with guests who arrived early. Despite every garden in the ton being as green as green can be, the Seventh’s gardens were somehow greener. Perhaps it was the estate’s distance from the rest of the ton—the Seventh lived furthest away to be closer to the “wilderness” on the edge—or maybe it was because the Seventh tended to be better gardeners than the rest of the Houses. Gideon noticed that none of the tables or chairs matched, an intentional eclectic aesthetic choice that made the Ninth’s garden party look hip in retrospect. Each table had a small centerpiece of multi-colored roses and baby’s breath; the tables were arrayed around a small soundstage so the audience faced the impressive estate house as a backdrop to whoever will be reading. If she looked, Gideon could see speaker towers hiding amongst the bushes along the edges of the audience. Two obvious towers stood like sentinels on either side of the stage. 

As promised, Magnus led the Daughters Undying and Reverend to a table that wasn’t quite front row but was definitely center. The best view in the garden. Shortly after they settled and the waitstaff delivered a glass of water and pot of tea for them both, the Sixth sat at the next table over, led there by Ortus (in similar clothing as Magnus but still wearing the Ninth skull paint). Gideon remained impassive as Harrow and Camilla put their heads together to talk about whatever they talked about. Gideon heard what might have been the title of a book. 

She shared a glance with Palamedes and nodded, solidarity in their respective dates sharing a moment with each other. Palamedes smiled and nodded as well, but his nod was something like a bow. Gideon made a mental note to try to befriend him at some point in the night. Maybe invite them to join them for dinner? Gideon’s head spun with potential after-event activities. 

Slowly, the gardens filled up. The Third sat on Gideon’s other side, Princess Ianthe drawing out a greeting to both Gideon and Harrow. Harrow responded stiffly, as one does to the disliked wife of a boss, and Gideon chatted with the Ida Princesses for a few minutes to keep their attention from Harrow. Crown Princess Coronabeth seemed especially interested in Gideon, which was flattering, but in the formal way Cohort officials thought Gideon could give them a promotion. 

Speaking of, the Second sat nearby too. Marta had a table to herself with a date Gideon didn’t recognize, and Judith, sitting alone at a table almost directly behind Gideon, stared at Coronabeth unabashedly. She didn’t see Gideon wave in greeting. Gideon caught sight of the other scions—Lady Pent sitting amongst the Fourth teens (Baron Tettares looking particularly nervous) and Silas looking none-too-thrilled at a table somewhere in the back. 

Finally, when the tables were filled, Duchess Septimus rolled her way from the entrance and stopped by the stage. She stood up and walked, carefully and with a cane, onto the stage to greet the audience and introduce her cavalier. Protesilaus took over to explain the evening: there were a few pre-planned performances, and then anyone from the audience with a poem at the ready could come and recite. There will be a finale at the end of the evening, the contents of which will astound the audience, he promised. 

During the first few performances, done by several members of the Seventh House and their staff, Harrow kept shifting in her chair, clearly uncomfortable, her hands never leaving the table. Gideon, only half-aware of what she was doing, cupped one hand around the Reverend Daughter’s. The lady of the Ninth tensed, and Gideon pulled their joined hands off the table to dangle between them. She pressed her palm to the Reverend Daughter’s and twined their fingers together and gave her a reassuring squeeze. 

“You all right?” Gideon asked. 

Under her veil, Harrow’s expression was open and unfiltered. Her dark eyes widened when they locked with Gideon’s, her mouth parting so subtly that it was like she anticipated a kiss. They stared like that a moment, Gideon subconsciously aware of a pair of eyes on the back of her head (whose they were, she didn’t care in the moment). There was something beautiful about the way the light caught on the veil, about the way the shadows shaped Harrow’s features like she wasn’t wearing any skull paint at all. Her high cheekbones coming together in a pointed chin, a small and pointed nose, the forehead above her brows. Gideon didn’t know the spiritual reasoning behind the skull paint (which Ortus also wore constantly) or the veil (which seemed Harrow-specific), and she wondered idly who the Reverend Daughter would show her bare face to. It seemed an awfully intimate privilege. 

When Harrow stopped fidgeting, Gideon casually winked and returned her attention to the stage. Baron Isaac Tettares had apparently been extolling the nature of romantic love in a clumsy, teenaged way. Gideon ignored the rush of color to her cheeks. 

* * *

Shortly after planetset, which is to say, shortly after the pre-planned performers finished and everyone had at least one round of booze in their system, the microphone opened up to the audience. Results were mixed but altogether amusing. Some of the previous performers came back with less put-together pieces, but it was mostly audience members going up to tell silly jokes or dirty limericks, Gideon among them. 

They kept their hands together, Gideon and Harrow, and the Undying Daughter was pleased that she was not the only one who initiated contact. As she returned from the mic, cheeks flushed with whiskey she shot back immediately before walking (stumbling) up, Harrow had  _ held out her hand _ for Gideon to take. Which she did, naturally, as she sat back down. 

Floodlights kept the stage lit and small, automatic candles in the centerpieces turned on as the sky grew darker with stars. The moon turned away from the great eye of its guardian and Gideon thought the sky resembled Harrow’s dress the way it sparkled. And with the veil, which must be new because it sparkled too, Harrow was the embodiment of the night, a mistress of secrets and mystery. 

Her head was empty of thought when she let go of the night mistress’s hand and wrapped that arm around Harrow’s shoulders, pulling her close so Gideon could whisper in her ear, “You look absolutely gorgeous.” 

Harrow was already tense, and with those last words, she gave a shuddering gasp. 

Something banged hard at the table next to theirs, throwing the First and Ninth apart. Next to them, Palamedes looked concerned over his cavalier, who refused to look at either Gideon or Harrow. Harrow retreated into herself, her hand adjusting her veil absentmindedly, and Gideon ordered another round of drinks for them (water for Harrow, which she’d been drinking all night save for a single glass of wine during the planetset). After another poem or two, Gideon felt her arm tug away from her, her hand sandwiched between the Reverend Daughter’s on her lap. Gideon squeezed a gloved hand because she had to hold  _ something _ otherwise she would accidentally brush something neither Gideon nor Harrow would want brushed. 

When Palamedes stood at the mic, Gideon leaned to Harrow again. The black vestal stiffened, but Gideon only asked, “Want to get a group together for dinner after this? My treat.”

They got distracted because, when Palamedes spoke, he did so with such a ferver that the audience quieted. His poem was long but not winding, heartfelt but not verbose. Gideon saw him shake as she recited, and her heart went out to him. This was a poem for someone, and the way Lady Septimus held her heart at the side of the stage, Gideon could probably guess who it was for. 

The Sixth House was down for dinner, and the Third overheard these plans so they were coming (sans their cavalier, who had other arrangements). Gideon was debating how she could pass this to Judith behind her without causing a fuss when Ortus the Sixth walked on the stage. He announced the finale was about to begin, and servants lit torches at trellises displayed around the audience. The firelight gave the night a very ominous and exciting feel. 

Because she was maybe a little too drunk, Gideon pulled Harrow to her. “I’m scawwed,” she said, high-pitched. Harrow’s elbow met royal ribs with enough force to guarantee her freedom. 

“Baby,” Harrow said as she sat back in her chair. Gideon’s hand rested on the back of the Reverend Daughter’s chair. With the torches, she saw what she hoped wasn’t a  _ frown _ on Harrow’s lips. As though the bright flames and Ortus’s explanation about what was about to happen was a familiar thing to her, and she didn’t like what was happening one bit. Gideon passively accepted that Ortus was asking everyone to remain in their seats for their own safety. Gideon realized that the floodlights were dimmed so the brightest light came from the torches. 

The flames were lit. Ortus went quiet. He was a skull suspended in darkness, a portentous figure about to announce the end of days. The audience hushed, tense with antici—

. . .

. . .

. . .

—pation. 

_ “I AM THE EMPEROR’S HAND; DO NOT THOU PERSIST IN THIS COMBAT; MATCHLESS AM I WITH THE LONG BLADE _ — _ ” _

The words came from behind the audience, as Magnus, clad in brown with a white half-cape and brandishing a wooden rapier, jumped from behind some bushes. Opposite him across the audience, Protesilaus repeated the motion. He wore the skull paint of the Ninth, his clothes black with bone jewelry at his joints and ribcage. 

Protesilaus recited, with more vigor than Magnus: “ _ THIS TRUE THAT YOUR POWER IS GREAT, O SERVANT OF MASTERFUL CANAAN; NOR MAY I HOPE TO BE COUNTED YOUR EQUAL IN SKILL, NOR IN CRAFT, NOR EVEN IN BODILY VIGOR— _ ”

The Fifth and Seventh cavaliers came together to exchange blows—obviously theatrical in nature, with an emphasis on the drama and the satisfying  _ whack _ of wood against wood. As they fought, Ortus from the front continued the epic, the words brought to life by the two duelists as they fought within the audience, moving among the tables in a pre-planned route that seemed obvious now that Gideon knew to look for it. They fought where the gaps were widest, often on one side of the audience or another. Everyone’s eyes followed the action, Ortus’s narration adding excitement. Magnus and Protesilaus mouthed the words, re-enacting the legendary duel between Mathias Nonius and one of the Lyctorsaints of the Emperor Undying. 

Gideon was enthralled. She was not alone. A part of her brain that refused to obey the pull of whiskey tried to nit-pick their technique, but that part got beaten up by another part of Gideon’s brain and her brain hamster. 

The final blows happened on the stage. When Magnus threw himself off it, his wooden sword gone and Protesilaus’s stuck underneath his armpit, the victor turned towards the audience and muttered the final words into the mic. The Seventh and Ninth bowed, and the audience erupted. 

Gideon was the first to stand, and everyone else followed suit. 

When the noise died down, she turned to Harrow, who had removed her veil at some point during the finale. “That was so cool!” the Undying Daughter exclaimed. 

“Really?” The Reverend Daughter resembled Ortus on stage as the torches cast a golden glow against her skull paint. It was haunting, the effect lessened by the self-conscious turn of her brow and anxious set of her lips. Her eyes reflected the fire from the torches. 

“Yeah!” Gideon said, unabashedly.

Relief. That was the look on Harrow’s face. For the first time ever, the Reverend Daughter’s lips pulled back in something that resembled but was not quite a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's fanart features Harrow in a regency dress I repeat [HARROW IN A REGENCY DRESS](https://rocketbelle.tumblr.com/post/640604622865743872/sketches-over-the-past-few-days%C2%A0) (Art by Rocketbelle)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon and Camilla have a, er, discussion. Harrow considers life as a gold digger.

_ Dear Reader, _

_ There is no force in this universe as powerful as words. It is with the words of the Emperor Undying himself that the denizens of his empire can conquer worlds. It is the words of a tenacious lawyer that can enact justice where it was previously lacking. It is the words of a lover that can hold or break a heart. None of the Nine Houses are as adept with words as the Seventh House with their gift of the arts, and they use their words for the art of poetry. Specifically, it seems, Protesilaus the Seventh, who was the organizer behind the Seventh’s Poetry Night. This was a private affair, but only because of limited seating in the back garden of the Seventh estate.  _

_ The Seventh were not alone in this event, for they graciously invited the Ninth to take credit for several things throughout the evening. Not one for the sword, Ortus the Ninth is a poet in his own right; instead of clashing against the Ninth’s secret affinity, the Seventh embraced it. A dramatic house by nature, it seems the Ninth cavalier is the only one of its number to channel that drama where it belongs: in the arts!  _

_ For it was Ortus the Ninth who opened the evening with a poem of his own making, one with an old meter that recalled ancient epics of the Resurrection. Instead of detailing the events of so long ago, Ninth’s poem spoke of emotion, of being far from home, and of the eerie eye of the great gas giant watching over us. The poem concluded on a hopeful note of finding friendship and community. _

_ The Seventh and Ninth are not the only ones who can bring the drama. Several other poets from the Nine Houses gave readings of their original works, including the burgeoning efforts of Baron Issac Tettares from the Fourth House. _

_ Shortly after planetset, the mic opened up for anyone to recite their poetry. The Second surprised everyone with some horrible rhymes about the Cohort. The Fifth made a good attempt. To the shock of this humble writer, Her Divine Highness had a few limericks up her sleeve—all of them with crass punchlines.  _

_ But perhaps the unexpected heart-thief of the night went to the Sixth, whose heartfelt poem about love and longing won the hearts of everyone in the audience. To whom does the Sixth speak? (Dear Reader, this humble writer is determined to find out!)  _

_ Speaking of romance, it was definitely in the air! Naberius the Third arrived on the arm of not one but two other gentlemen! They sat away from his necromancers, and departed shortly after the finale. The Second cavalier is also finding love, as Marta the Second came with a young woman in tow, leaving her necromancer at a table all by herself. Silas Ocktakiseron remains unattached, though hopefully his cavalier is going the way of the others and finding a special someone.  _

_ Yes, I am dancing around the people you most want to hear about. The biggest news of the night is this: Her Divine Highness Gideon Prime and Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus arrived together, sat together at the same table, and invited a group of people to dine with them when the event was over! (Alas, this humble writer did not receive an invitation.) Dear reader, I was as surprised as you when Her Divine Highness walked in on the arm of the Ninth scion. What’s more, they spent most of the evening  holding hands .  _

_ There has been no official announcement about any future engagement between the Ninth and the First. If you have your eye on one or the other, then the time is now to insert yourself into the running! Will you rescue Her Divine Highness from the gloomy scion of the Ninth? Or will you steer the Reverend Daughter away from the clutches of the First? If you do, your exploits will be documented by yours truly. I remain, ever faithfully yours.  _

_ Lady Whistledown _

* * *

“Something on your mind, Sixth?” Gideon was halfway dressed in the locker rooms at the cavalier training grounds, nothing but her bandeau and undone trousers feebly hanging from her hips. Gideon had just arrived; her duffel of weapons lay under the bench at her ankles. Her usual sparring partner—either Senior or Pyrrha, whichever happened to be piloting that day—was mysteriously gone; they had only ever been this sparse at Koniortos Court, and Gideon had been enjoying her newfound independence too much to ask where they went. When they were gone, she frequented the cavalier training grounds. Despite being reserved for cavaliers, Gideon got a pass, being royalty and all. 

Beside her in the locker room stood Camilla the Sixth, short brown hair framing angry brown eyes. She was dressed for a fight in tight grey clothing that emphasized her shoulders and biceps, and two swords strapped to her back, their hilts protruding from her shoulders. Gideon thought of her and Harrow talking at the poetry night, and how they sat together at dinner afterward. Gideon was across the table, flanked by Judith and Princess Coronabeth, gossiping about the state of the upper echelons of the Cohort. She didn’t hear what Harrow and Camilla talked about, just that they spent most of dinner talking. 

Harrow and Camilla, Gideon had thought, seemed an unlikely couple. But it wasn’t for Gideon to decide. If Harrow was into it, then she should support it. And now that Camilla is approaching Gideon at the training grounds, that means Gideon can try to push Camilla in a direction that would be favorable to Harrow. 

“Let’s spar,” Camilla said, voice tight. And Gideon knew without asking that she read the latest Whistledown. 

“Okay. Let me warm up first?” 

Camilla acquiesced, but stuck close as if expecting Gideon to somehow wiggle out of the fight, like Gideon’s old maths tutor used to do. In defiance of this youthful reminder, Gideon took her time getting her training clothes on—a set of form-fitting synthetics that exposed her biceps and whisked away sweat, paired with her usual combat boots that have seen actual combat. She turned to Camilla when ready, and they walked deeper into the facility to find a spare practice ring, Gideon’s duffel casually hung across her shoulders. It was a nice day out, so the grounds outside were littered with practice rings, most of which were occupied. Gideon waved to a few familiar faces, one of them being the bushy-haired cavalier of the Fourth, as Camilla led the way to an open ring in the middle of the outdoor grounds. 

Gideon jogged a couple laps around the ring and stretched her muscles. Camilla must have already been warmed up, because she was in the center, hands itching for her swords. 

“Rapier?” Her Divine Highness asked now that her muscles were warmed. 

“Your main,” Sixth said. 

Gideon shrugged. If Camilla the Sixth knew Gideon’s main was a Cohort’s standard zweihander, and if she still wanted to go up against that, then that was her problem. Her Divine Highness pulled out the sheathed sword from her duffel and gave it some practiced swings. Sparring usually happened with sheathed blades, save for rapiers which required near impossible precision to do real damage. 

Then Camilla hit Gideon with the force of the emperor, no fanfare or warning. Gideon parried, narrowly dodging the Sixth, then raised her two-hander to block the blades that came down on her divine face. 

Gideon knew in that first swing how she would play this. Who’s fight this would be was anyone’s guess. They didn’t negotiate the end terms, so if Gideon had any hope of getting out of this (apparently alive), she would have to somehow incapacitate Camilla the Sixth. Preferably without injury. 

The jittery energy Camilla had while waiting on Gideon disappeared. In its place was the freedom of Camilla’s ferality: a snarl, a glare, and two very sharp short swords that meant business. Gideon swept Camilla’s feet from under her and took several steps backwards, waiting for her to get up and strike again. Camilla was fast. She moved with the grace of a jungle cat and the speed of a gazelle. Gideon spent a good two minutes on the defense, blocking and parrying and trying to keep a distance between them. 

Her goal was attrition: at this pace, Camilla would quickly tire and make mistakes that could be exploited. Divine eyes looked for signs of fatigue, but Camilla was not letting up. A challenge, then. Gideon maintained defense, tried not to move as much as Camilla was, and did her best to keep the Sixth cavalier as far away as possible, which wasn’t very. All the while, her mind analyzed Camilla’s body—the way her shoulders tensed right before a strike, the way her mouth curled with each block or parry. At this point, Her Divine Highness merely looked for an opening. 

She found it when Camilla took a moment to rest instead of attacking. Gideon assumed her stance, defensive as she had been this entire fight, amber eyes locked with umber ones. Camilla was panting. So was Gideon, but Gideon knew she could go at this for a while yet. She wasn’t running around like Camilla was, wasn’t flailing about with the hope of purchase. For the first time in this fight, Camilla was being analytical. That it took this long seemed out of character. And the way to counter it was to break the pattern. 

Gideon opened her stance. A trap, and surely one Camilla wouldn’t fall for. She didn’t disappoint. 

Camilla was practically hunched, her legs were tightly wound springs waiting to be released. If it weren’t for Gideon’s subtle stunt, she probably would have attacked again by now. Gideon’s zweihander was tip-down in the dirt, almost a relaxing position, and one that would require some strength to swing back into the air. Gideon relaxed her knees in preparation for the unknown. 

“What’s this about?” Gideon shouted, knowing full well what it was about. Gideon thought about Harrow’s hand in hers, then thought of Harrow and Camilla at dinner, touching heads and exchanging smiles. Harrow had taken off her veil for Camilla. She didn’t do that for Gideon. 

Camilla’s blades twitched. In anger? In confusion? “You know full well!” she shouted. 

Gideon heard mutterings from behind her—so they attracted a crowd—but filed that information as unimportant. 

“No,” Gideon lied, “I don’t.”

This was insulting to the Sixth. She sprung. Gideon dropped her sword. Muscle memory took over. Camilla was no Gideon the First—smaller and more limber and definitely not top heavy—but she had momentum and the inability to stop at a moment’s notice. Gideon crouched, somehow ducking under Camilla’s blades (which for all she knew purposefully missed their target), and wrapped her hands around Camilla’s hips, tossing her overhead in the direction she ran. On Senior, the move would have resulted in his doing a somersault. On Camilla, who didn’t know to expect it, she flung her blades away from her and landed on her shoulder. 

Gideon was on her in the next half second, straddling her hips and pushing on her shoulders to keep her facedown in the dirt. Camilla tried to wiggle an arm loose, and Gideon took it and twisted it behind her. Camilla grunted in pain, but Gideon didn’t let up. 

“Yield,” Gideon demanded. Camilla tried to kick her way out and Gideon pushed shins against Camilla’s knees. “Yield,” Gideon repeated. 

Camilla gave it one more good effort, then stopped wiggling. A show of giving up. Gideon waited, suspecting. She could be patient when she wanted to be, and she was sick of fighting over this. Finally, Camilla gave it one last attempt accompanied by a growl low in her throat, then slumped once more in defeat. Her muscles finally relaxed. 

“I yield,” she said. 

Gideon was slow to climb off her, but Camilla remained on the ground. She eyed Her Divine Highness with pointed suspicion when Gideon offered a hand. Camilla took it, and Gideon pulled the Sixth cavalier to her feet. Conscious of the small crowd that had gathered to watch them, Gideon kept Camilla close to speak into her ear. 

“I offer this for free,” Gideon said. “She’s worried about her House’s future. Don’t focus on what you can provide  _ her _ , focus on what you can provide  _ her House _ .” Then, because Gideon wanted to drive home the stupidity of this fight, “You’d be a good match for her, Sixth. When she chooses you, you have my blessing.” 

Gideon thumped Camilla on the back like a bro, retrieved her sword and her bag, and left the ring. She ignored the stares of everyone who had gathered to watch the Undying Daughter fight, and tried not to let it bother her that most of them looked surprised. 

* * *

Harrow’s fingers were not as nimble as Her Divine Highness’s at the harpsichord. She practiced anyway, her mind on the fumbling music instead of her guests. Crown Princess Coronabeth Tridentarius and Prince Naberius Tern were bored out of their minds, and they said so at every opportunity but not to Harrow directly. They seemed to be at the mercy of Princess Ianthe, who hung onto the harpsichord as if she were a singer in a jazz club. Instead of weak floodlights, they were illuminated by the fading afternoon light through the sitting room windows, the curtains thrown wide as soon as the Third entered the sitting room an hour before. Their meager audience was inattentive. And Harrow was a far cry from a jazz musician on a smoky, underground stage. 

“Tell me you know more than these simple scales,” Ianthe drawled. From this angle, she looked like warm table butter that had been sitting out a couple days too long, forgotten by even the cat. 

“My music skills are not what they were as a child,” Harrow said. 

“Surely you know how to improvise.” Ianthe rolled onto her back and looked at Harrow upside-down. Harrow kept her gaze averted, but from the corner of her eye, she noted that Ianthe looked like a spider from that pose. Her mouth smiled and it was eerie seeing it above her nose. 

Across the room, Prince Tern replaced a book on the bookshelf. Harrow had made it clear on previous visits that everything belonged to the Fifth, so she wasn’t worried about the prince actually stealing any of the books; except she totally was. Having not been confronted with this type of situation, she had no idea how to address it, especially to someone like Prince Tern who outwardly disliked her. 

Crown Princess Coronabeth, meanwhile, had been draped across an armchair, staring at the ceiling for a while. An unwilling visitor, dragged along by her sister to be a chaperone, when she probably would have preferred to have been elsewhere. It was Princess Corona that mentioned in excited tones that Her Divine Highness and Camilla the Sixth got into a very intense bout that morning at the cavalier training grounds. Harrow feigned disinterest even though she was very interested to know more. But she didn’t want to dismiss anyone as powerful as the Third scions to confront either Camilla or Gideon. 

“As I said,” Harrow said to Princess Ianthe, “my music skills are not what they have been.”

The curdled dairy princess righted herself. “So why the renewed interest, Reverend Daughter?” 

Harrow shrugged as she tried her hand at an arpeggio. Then, just to see if she could, she put a flourish on the highest note before the descent. She had hoped to dodge the question, and it was only by the good grace of Princess Corona that she did. 

“I don’t know about you, Babs, but I’ve wasted enough time here for the day,” Crown Princess Coronabeth said. “Let’s go stretch our legs in the park.”

Naberius the Third looked like he wanted nothing more than to stretch his legs in the park with Crown Princess Coronabeth. The two left in such a hurry that Harrow barely had time to stand up from the harpsichord to see them out. She kept her eyes on the door, hoping for Ortus or Aiglamene to make an appearance with the departure of the chaperones, but with little hope. Ortus had been spending more and more time with, as far as Harrow could tell, Magnus the Fifth and Protesilaus the Seventh. Aiglamene, meanwhile, had somehow found ways to occupy her time away from the residence; Harrow had not asked about her disappearances, nor had she considered them a detriment until this very moment when Harrow found herself alone with Princess Ianthe Tridentarius and her predatory violet smirk. 

“I guess it’s just you and me then, Reverend Daughter,” the princess purred. Harrow kept her eyes on the door, her face away from her dramatic companion. “I must admit, I believe my sister has the right idea in leaving this place. Reverend Daughter Harrowhark, will you join me for dinner at the Five Times Nine?”

The Five Times Nine was the hotel she ate at after the poetry night. Harrow thought about the food stores in the kitchen and determined everything there ineligible for a counter proposal. Nothing could beat the fine cuisine of the hotel, and Harrow certainly lacked the adequate skills to cook anything that wasn’t breakfast gruel or snow leek soup. Besides, going with Princess Ianthe would mean more food saved for the Ninth (the Princess would undoubtedly pay as a way to show off), and their ability to feed themselves was starting to get worrisome. 

“Sure,” Harrow said. “Let me just leave a note for my retainers so they don’t worry.”

Princess Ianthe was patient as Harrow scribbled a couple hurried sentences at the desk in the corner. She placed the note on a table in the entryway where she thought it would be obvious, then followed the princess out of the residence. 

* * *

The air was electrified with excitement. Just hours ago, an autocarriage brought the denizens of the Ninth to the estate of the First, and there they broke the news to Ortus that he would not have to participate in today’s events. He practically fainted from relief, kept bending double in gratitude to Her Divine Highness and he was too undeserving such chivalry and anything he can do in his limited power to repay this debt he would gladly do it. Gideon simply showed him to the library and said a skeleton would collect him when they were ready to leave. 

The First estate was within walking distance to the cavalier training grounds, where today’s event was taking place, and so she and the Reverend Daughter walked arm-in-arm to warm themselves up. 

Gideon looked the part of the average Fifth citizen—save for the rapier and knuckle knives on her belt, the billowing black shirt and tight black breeches marking her alliance, and the black vestal whose hand casually gripped her elbow. There was a very short discussion about Gideon also wearing the skull paint, but that was dismissed for a myriad of reasons, the most pertinent being that it would have been an admittance to a relationship more serious than previously displayed. So Gideon went bare-faced, feeling like a space pirate. 

There was something natural about having the Reverend Daughter on her arm, walking in a crowd as though they were on their way to a concert. 

“Something on your mind, my dusky darling?” Gideon asked. Several blocks away, a loud thumping beat got the crowd pumping for the days’ activities. It was coming from just outside the training grounds. In the crook of her elbow, the dusky darling in question considered the question. 

“Nothing in particular,” Harrow said. “Other than our agreement and where it stands.”

Gideon liked it when it was just the two of them, even if their time was spent alone in a crowd. But she liked it better when their conversation was about anything other than their arrangement—snow leek production and favorite (or least favorite) foods and favorite book ever read, that sort of thing. Harrow was an enigmatic void, but somehow Gideon learned that she had never read a romance novel until a couple weeks prior, that she hated herbs and spices in her food, and that she sometimes hummed under her breath when she felt content. This last bit was a recent discovery that Gideon vowed to never bring up under any circumstance for fear of Harrow never doing it again. 

“I’ve been meaning to say,” Gideon said, “I think Camilla the Sixth is on the precipice of asking for your hand.” 

“I have similar suspicions for Crown Princess Ianthe Tridentarius.” 

Gideon’s gut had a negative reaction to that, a sort of jump one does when startled by the unexpected. She knew what either twin was capable of on their own, and Ianthe was the absolute worst of the two (though Corona wasn’t much better, to be quite honest). They used to be in each others’ pockets, the Tridentarii and Gideon, before Gideon left for the Cohort and made friends with Judith and later Marta. The Second scion and cavalier were refreshing compared to the twins—pragmatic, low-maintenance, and with a better sense of humor, though they both were sticklers for following orders and keeping their uniforms unruffled. 

After years of not speaking with the Third scions, Gideon realized that she had no patience for their extravagance and underhanded comments. And if Gideon couldn’t be bothered to renew that friendship on those grounds, then Harrow would certainly hate them too. 

Camilla the Sixth, though, would be good. When it came to marriage, at least Camilla seemed concerned over Harrow’s well-being. Gideon remembered the way Camilla offered Harrow a glass of water at the Ninth garden party, and the look on her face as she danced with Harrow at the masquerade. Perhaps her only flaw was going after Gideon instead of actually talking to Harrow about their relationship, but at least her heart was in the right place. 

If  _ Gideon _ were given the choice between Camilla and Ianthe, the choice was obvious.

“Say they both extended proposals this evening,” Gideon said. “Hypothetically, of course. Which one would you accept?”

It took a full block of walking before Harrow responded; the smell of fried street food grew exponentially. Her face may have been hidden by a veil, but her grip on Gideon’s elbow and the stiff way she held her neck communicated enough for Her Divine Highness. Harrow was now presented with the very real possibility of what she came here to do. This decision would not be made lightly. 

“The Third,” Harrow finally answered. 

Gideon full on stopped, forcing Harrow to stop with her. Some people behind them shouted their indignity at the sudden movement, so Gideon dragged Harrow to the side of the sidewalk. They were almost at the training grounds and the crowd was thick with sweat and anticipation and eagerness. Some people yelled the wares that they sold at street booths. Gideon had a sudden craving for fried mushrooms in garlic sauce. 

“You can’t be serious,” she said. 

“I am,” Harrow replied, visibly flustered. “The Third is a powerful House. And the resources they have will more than provide for the Ninth.”

“Harrow, they will suck you clean and leave you dry,” Gideon said. 

“This choice isn’t yours.”

“Camilla the Sixth cares for you. Actually cares for you,” Gideon said. “Please do not discount the importance of that in a wife.” Gideon may have read a grand total of three romance novels in her life—all of them by accident—but she knew what counted and what didn’t. She thought of Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn. She thought of Protesilaus the Seventh and his wife Mia and their litter of bouncing, happy children. 

Harrow was so blinded by the needs of her House that she couldn’t see any reason to take care of herself. 

But the mention of Camilla the Sixth gave the Reverend Daughter pause. “I am . . . quite fond of Cam as well,” Harrow said with an air of disappointment in her voice. “But I cannot put myself before my House. I cannot afford that, Your Imperial Majesty. The Master Warden has said the Sixth is almost as stretched as the Ninth, and I do not know if I can rely on them.”

“Both the Master Warden and his Hand are master problem solvers,” Gideon countered. “You have a big brain. The three of you alone will be able to come up with something.”

“Anything less than absolute certainty cannot be considered,” Harrow said. She opened her mouth to continue, taking the path of the public shouting match, but Jeannemary the Fourth came bounding over to the definitely-not-a-couple with excitement in her voice and bright blue ribbon keeping her flyaway hair out of her face. Behind the Fourth cavalier was her necromancer, looking nervous but ready, and behind them the Fifth who looked more like spectators than actual participants. 

Perhaps it was a good thing to leave their discussion in limbo for the present. It would give Gideon time to think of great arguments in favor of Camilla as opposed to the creepy, emotional hunger of Ianthe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually listened to harpsichord music while writing part of this chapter and it is not as pretty as my beloved piano. BUT it does fit the whole Catholic Death Cult aesthetic. [Here’s a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/10vBx8P02gWVE9WRnyJQgW?si=bebf77d30f404f15).
> 
> Here is some fanart by the artist Kate on Twitter, featuring Griddlehark in [period formal wear](https://twitter.com/springmaidens/status/1359335401832521729?s=19).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly tournament between the Nine Houses. Nothing to get worked up about. ;)

There was a brief ceremony before things officially started, just a formal thing to let everyone know that Her Divine Highness Gideon Prime was standing in for Ortus the Ninth. A lot of people in the spectator stands muttered amongst themselves. Surely this means that things are progressing at a rate heretofore unheard of by anyone else. Or perhaps they were excited to see Her Divine Highness’ dueling skills in action. Gideon would have expended effort in not rolling her eyes, but she was used to Cohort briefings. They could be just as tedious as this. At least the general populace were a bit more lenient when it came to rule breaking. At the Cohort, a change in cavalier would have needed at least five forms filled out and approval from two separate senior officers and Gideon the First would have gotten involved to cut the bureaucratic bullshit. For this, Ortus the Ninth bowed to Gideon and trod off to the stands, leaving Gideon and Harrow to walk to the bench reserved for the Ninth House adept and her cavalier. 

The ceremony was done, and so the tournament began. 

It would be an all-day affair. Cavalier against cavalier and necromancer against necromancer in two separate rings, both observed from the same spectator stands. There were a lot of spectators. Gideon felt their presence the same way she felt the eyes of her superior officers on the battlefield—as an ominous presence you weren’t technically supposed to notice but did anyway. The Second and Ninth opened the tournament; Marta against Gideon then Judith against Harrow. Perhaps they planned it that way—easy loses that would then open them up to keep the rest of the event organized and in-line. 

Or perhaps they didn’t. Marta the Second got in at least one point on Gideon, her eyes alight with victory as they reset. The lieutenant’s skills with a rapier were unparalleled, but Her Divine Highness spent a childhood training with more than one weapon with two Lyctors as her swordmasters, and that was before she joined the Cohort. It would have been an even match if Gideon had gone easy on Marta. 

The second opening bout was every bit unfair to Judith. Harrow easily won that match with two bone chips: one to encase the platinum prize skull and a second to make a skeleton body for it, which rushed past Judith before she could say  _ thanergy _ . 

Gideon spent the next six rounds intent on the matches while hopping on the balls of her feet to keep her muscles warm. The rapier at her hip clattered against her knuckle knives, which she refused to don until she was about to enter the ring no matter how much she wanted them back on her wrist. 

“Calm down,” Harrow complained, sitting on the Ninth bench. Her own nerves were visible from the way she fidgeted. Gone was the veil to reveal her face, masked with the skull paint of the Ninth. Harrow’s hair was short and fuzzy. If Gideon allowed herself to pay attention to her, she would have asked to run her hands through it. But Gideon did not allow herself to pay attention to Harrow. Despite walking in together and Gideon fighting on behalf of the Ninth, this was a day to bring Harrow and Camilla the Sixth together. 

In response to Harrow, Gideon merely grunted. Finally,  _ finally _ , in the cavalier ring, Column the Eighth got in a third hit past Protesilaus the Seventh’s chain, and the audience erupted in applause. It had been an intense duel, and now that it was finally over—Dulcie (real Dulcie) shouting about the poems she was constructing about Pro’s beautiful loss—Gideon could finally stop her incessant hopping. 

A glance over at her next opponent confirmed that Camilla the Sixth was anxious for a rematch. They would have stared each other down for the entirety of the next bout (between the necromancers of the Seventh and Eighth Houses), but Camilla broke contact first to make soft eyes at Harrow. 

And Gideon decided exactly how she was going to play her second round. 

So when she finally entered the ring opposite the Warden’s Hand, after they bowed and called their names (“Gideon the Ninth” even as an honorary title had a nice ring to it), Gideon said so only Camilla could hear, “Let’s give that gossip rag something to talk about.” 

Camilla wasn’t as proficient with a rapier as she was with her dual swords, but she was still formidable. Gideon didn’t have to hold back as much as she anticipated, and at least one of the Sixth’s two hits was the genuine thing. Camilla wielded a sword like it was her own bloody arm, and it didn’t seem to matter that the rapier was longer and thinner than her main. She knew the dimensions and she knew her limits. 

Gideon couldn’t help smiling when they reset for the fifth and final time, knuckle knives raised and ready to parry. She was all prepared to bring the drama, eyes studying Camilla but mind on the enigmatic Lady Whistledown and what it would take to give her a show, and that distraction turned into her downfall. Camilla’s blade slipped past her defenses to tap her clavicle in a way that could not be argued. 

“Match to the Sixth!” the referee called. 

*

Outside the sparring ring, Her Divine Highness looked ecstatic. Like she couldn’t have wanted anything more than to lose to Camilla the Sixth. She wrapped an arm around the poor Sixth’s shoulders and muttered something for only Camilla to hear. Camilla responded incredulously, and Gideon responded with her usual nonchalance. Something about the interaction kneaded Harrow’s stomach like a loaf of uncooked dough. In the back of her mind, she would have liked it if Gideon had won. Show the world that the Ninth trained formidable necromancers and called to aid the power of skillful swordspersons. Her Divine Highness had something up her sleeve, and Harrow didn’t have the time to figure out what it could possibly be. She had her own second-round duel to think about, against Princess Ianthe of Ida. 

The necromantic game was simple and clever. In another lifetime, Harrow may have been brought up where necromantic children played it as a show of their burgeoning knowledge. Or maybe the Second made up the game specifically for this event. Either way, the first round seemed too easy. Harrow was ready for the challenge. 

Ianthe was too clever. As soon as the referee called for the game to begin, the princess flung a glob of fat at the skull on the pedestal between them, encasing it. Harrow reached out with thanergy to grab hold of the skull from the inside (as easy as manipulating bone inside flesh-covered corpses as a child) but found the way was blocked. So Ianthe was smarter than she appeared. As Ianthe transformed a bit of the fat into muscle and sinew, probably to grow legs, Harrow decided to use some of what she had been learning since arriving here. She grasped the threads of fat surrounding the skull and attempted to pull them off. Ianthe planned for that too, but she did not plan for Harrow ripping away all the muscle Ianthe started to make. 

They were at a stalemate like that until Harrow felt a drop of blood fall from her left ear. This was more energy than she wanted to expend for just the second round, and she planned on seeing this tournament until a victorious end. She broke off a bone ship from her bracelet and tossed it at Ianthe. While airborne, it grew in size like a sheet and wrapped itself around Ianthe’s head upon contact. The shock of it loosened her hold on the skull prize. Harrow was free to do what she did earlier, use a bone chip to transform the skull into a pelvis with legs and walk it passed Ianthe’s struggling form. 

“Match to the Ninth!” the referee called. 

*

Camilla the Sixth against Colum the Eighth was a wonder to watch, something Harrow extrapolated from Gideon’s incomprehensible commentary from the sidelines. It was the championship match for the cavaliers, but neither of them seemed remotely tired. Camilla got in two touches before Colum got in one, and it was a tense three minutes of pure back-and-forth before Colum even earned the point. 

Gideon nudged Harrow with her elbow. “You could send her a bit of luck, you know,” Gideon said. 

Harrow was indignant. “How?” 

“Blow her a kiss.”

“Blow her a . . .”

From across the ring, Harrow locked eyes with Camilla. Harrow and Gideon stood at the fence surrounding it, surrounded by the other scions and cavaliers. When Camilla’s brown eyes lingered, Harrow nodded. At her shoulder, Her Divine Highness sighed and shrugged, exasperated; but in the ring, Camilla’s mouth briefly upturned and her eyes sharpened. She faced Colum, resetting, and sprang too fast to comprehend to win the tournament. 

“Your cav for the night, Reverend Daughter,” Gideon said with a suggestive tap from her hip. 

“Don’t be crass,” Harrow said. “The necromantic champion isn’t decided yet.” 

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

*

The actual final bout was between Harrow and Dulcie. Harrow knew herself to barely be at her limits, but Dulcie looked absolutely exhausted. Harrow might have called it if she hadn’t noticed the determined glow in the Seventh scion’s eyes. The fierce fire that said Dulcie was not going to give this up, that she might in fact be relishing the chance to compete with the necromancer of the Ninth. Palamedes had gone down in the first round against Ianthe, and Dulcie made quick work of the previous two rounds. 

Harrow did herself a disservice by waiting for the Seventh necromancer to make the first move. Dulcie threw a bone chip covered in fresh blood (coughed up before the match) but it did not make it to its intended target. Bone and blood transfigured into a small construct with legs and arms, that bowled into the pedestal, knocking the prize skull to the dirt. The construct multiplied, doubling itself, and both hopped and skipped to the skull. 

“Oi!” 

The sound of Her Divine Highness’s annoyance reminded Harrow that she was here to  _ win _ and that skull was awfully close to calling otherwise. Harrow threw a bone chip down to make a wall to block the constructs. Then another bone chip to form a full skeleton. 

Give Dulcie another chance at victory or take it herself? Harrow need only command the skeleton to toss the skull passed the chair-bound necromancer. An easy victory. But Dulcie’s smirk hinted at something up her sleeve. The Seventh scion bit her lip in thought, blue eyes alight with glee, her brow tinted with the faint sheen of blood sweat. Better to have the skeleton walk it, then. But Harrow suspected a trap for that too. 

Harrow used the bone wall to encase the Seventh constructs, cutting them off from their master across the ring. Then Harrow broke off her bracelet of bone chips wholesale and scattered everything, raising as many skeletons as she could, each holding a copy of the prized skull that was to make it pass the opposing necromancer. The skeletons ran around themselves to hide the real deal (which Harrow almost lost track of herself. She found it again by tracing the lines of her power to one that did not hold her creation). Then, as a mass, they charged the other side. 

Dulcie shot globs of blood at a few skeletons, the blood messing with Harrow’s thanergetic connection. It was a good effort, but she wouldn’t have enough for the entire small army. Once every skeleton passed Dulcie, Harrow reduced them back to chips—the skull prize dropped to the grass. 

“Match to the Ninth!” the referee called. 

The stands erupted. 

*

Victory was celebrated with a big feast at the Second estate—a multi-course meal for all sixteen competitors at the head table, waited on by Cohort sargeants. Camilla and Harrow sat in the middle, the place of honor for being the day’s champions, and traded food with each other. Gideon noted that Harrow ate more at this feast than anything she ate in front of Gideon, which means she must be really hungry. Gideon, meanwhile, sat with Colum on one side and Protesilaus on the other. They both talked over Her Divine Highness’s head, exchanging compliments about technique and sportsmanship. They were supposed to have assigned seats, but Gideon politely asked Protesilaus to switch seats, which he did; this opened up the door to conversation with the remaining cavaliers—most notably the Fifth and Fourth. 

The spectators feasted on a huge buffet set against one wall of the Second estate’s ballroom, the remaining tables in the hall filled with chatter and excitement and laughter. Once she ate her fill, Gideon leaned back in her chair, the rapier clanking against the chair legs and floor, and closed her eyes. Content with the way the day went. 

But it was also a time for other matters to become relevant again. Camilla needed to propose to Harrow soon, before Ianthe could come in with a bigger, better offer Harrow would surely accept. Gideon started plotting a way to get the Sixth, Harrow, and herself in the same room to open negotiations. She thought she had a good idea—something involving a griffin’s nest in the giant red eye in the sky—when Magnus the Fifth elbowed her in the side. The griffin’s nest was only a dream. 

“Your ride is here,” Fifth said with a jovial glint in his eyes. 

“My what?”

From behind Gideon, a curt voice that melted her insides spoke, snappy with exhaustion. “It’s time to go, Your Imperial Majesty. You’ve been snoring.”

Gideon did not question leaving with the Ninth, nor did she examine how natural it felt to have Harrow at her side as they made their way out of the Second estate and into the fading evening twilight. 

* * *

_ Dear Readers, _

_ Another event has come and gone, and this one with the friendly competitiveness of a tournament between the House scions and their cavaliers. Officially, each House competed for a monetary prize, a generous donation from the Cohort split down the middle for the best cavalier and best necromancer of the Nine Houses. Unofficially, what they were really competing for was notoriety. This tournament was a chance to show off skills with both the blade and the flesh. There were victories and disappointments all around.  _

_ It was a big day for everyone involved with a grand total of fourteen matches. I will not document each of these matches, but I have a lot of thoughts about the most dramatic matches of the day.  _

_ First, a breakdown of the final cavalier bracket.  _

  * _ROUND 1:_
  * _SECOND v NINTH → NINTH_
  * _THIRD v SIXTH → SIXTH_
  * _FIFTH v FOURTH → FOURTH_
  * _SEVENTH v EIGHTH → EIGHTH_
    * _ROUND 2:_
    * _NINTH v SIXTH → SIXTH_
    * _FOURTH v EIGHTH → EIGHTH_
      * _ROUND 3: _
      * _SIXTH v EIGHTH → SIXTH_



_ CHAMPION: CAMILLA THE SIXTH _

_ Rules for the cavalier duels are as follows: the rapier is the only main allowed, the off-hand could be duelists’ choice. The winner was the first to earn three points. A point is won by tapping the opponent on the torso above the waist, arms and legs exempt. Moves above the neck were illegal. Stepping outside of the ring earned a point for the opponent. Unsportsmanlike conduct, arguing with the referees, and a disregard for the rules earned disqualifications.  _

_ According to the black market betting pool, the favorites for the cavalier bracket were Colum the Eighth, Naberius the Third, and Her Divine Highness Gideon Prime, temporarily referred to as Gideon the Ninth.  _

_ Before the event began, Her Divine Highness stepped in to volunteer as swordswoman for the Ninth. Ortus the Ninth looked relieved as he absconded to the spectator stands, where he was among a small but enthusiastic group of Ninth supporters, all wearing black though only Ortus the Ninth wore the traditional Ninth skull paint.  _

_ Her Divine Highness, meanwhile, opened the tournament with a match against Marta the Second. Both are comrades in the Cohort, and there are some well-known stories of battles where these two were on the same side. Each is formidable in their own right—this academic writer has it from good authority that some of the moves from Her Divine Highness were not traditional to the rapier. And it was the employment of these moves that prevented the Second from earning more than a single point.  _

_ The Undying Daughter used a similar tact against Camilla the Sixth in the second round. However, Sixth’s flexibility and overall dexterity with the single-handed rapier was enough to best Her Imperial Majesty. This comes after the rumors of a bout between these two at the cavalier training grounds days earlier, where each was said to use their main weapons in an intense sparring match. Rumor has it Her Divine Highness walked away the victor for that match, but Sixth won the rematch here.  _

_ From there, Sixth snatched victory from Eighth in the third round. Once again, her flexibility and dexterity contributed to her victory, as she was adept at dodging the most forceful of attacks from Colum the Eighth. Eighth put on a good show, and he congratulated his opponent on her victory, showing that not every member of Eighth House is like its scion.  _

_ The match to see, however, was between Column the Eighth and Protesilaus the Seventh in the first round. These gentlemen are powerful tanks in their own right, and putting them against each other gave the spectators a tense display of strength and stamina unseen for the rest of the day. Protesilaus the Seventh was a beast of a fighter, equivalent to the skill and patience of Colum the Eighth. They matched their moves blow-for-blow for all of ten minutes, the longest fight for the entirety of the day. In the end, it was Colum’s patience with his targe that won him the round.  _

_ As for the necromancers: _

  * _ROUND 1: _
  * _SECOND v NINTH → NINTH_
  * _THIRD v SIXTH → THIRD_
  * _FIFTH v FOURTH → FOURTH_
  * _SEVENTH v EIGHTH → SEVENTH_
    * _ROUND 2: _
    * _NINTH v THIRD → NINTH_
    * _FOURTH v SEVENTH → SEVENTH_
      * _ROUND 3: _
      * _NINTH v SEVENTH → NINTH_



_ CHAMPION: REVEREND DAUGHTER HARROWHARK NONAGESIMUS  _

_ The rules for the necromantic duel were as thus: the winner was determined by walking the prize skull from the pedestal past the line of the opposition. Necromancers were not allowed out of a small circle, and they were only allowed to touch the skull with necromancy. Attacks on the opposing necromancer were allowed so long as they were not physically debilitating. Stepping outside the necromantic circle forfeited the match.  _

_ The betting pool favored Lady Abigail Pent, Silas Octakiseron, and Princess Ianthe Tridentarius.  _

_ Both Lady Pent and Octakiseron lost in their first round matches to the underdogs, Baron Isaac Tettares and Duchess Dulcinea Septimus respectively. Baron Tettares and Duchess Septimus were then pitted against each other, to the apparent trepidation of the baron, who seemed nervous about using his full range of skills on the weak figure of the duchess. This cost him, as the duchess took advantage of that trepidation, earning her a championship fight with the Reverend Daughter.  _

_ Despite her necromantic display at her garden party earlier in the season, everyone was surprised at the abilities of Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus. She easily defeated Captain Judith Deuteros in the first round, but found a little trouble against Princess Ianthe Tridentarius. The real struggle happened between the Reverend Daughter and the Duchess of Rhodes, which was an entertaining bout to watch as a necromancer. Both favored constructs. It was only through the use of trickery that the Ninth’s scion found victory. _

_ At the end of the day, dear reader, it came back to the courtship of the Reverend Daughter. With the Ninth scion and Sixth cavalier as victors, they were granted the highest honors at the feast after the tournament. Judging by the ease of their conversation and the way they shared their food, it seems Her Divine Highness has some romantic competition with the Sixth. Which one are you rooting for, dear reader?  _

_ As always, how this plays out will be documented by yours truly. I remain, _

_ Lady Whistledown _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever look across a dance floor and see [your one true love](https://twitter.com/apennyprice/status/1357476485376991238?s=19%C2%A0)? (Art by A Penny Price)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Someone,_ not saying who, finally figures out her feelings.

The ceiling of the training room was pretty standard as far as ceilings go. Circular lights were inlaid in it, dotting the ceiling at regular, grid-like intervals that, if Gideon tried to concentrate too hard, would make her dizzy seeing patterns that weren’t there. The ceiling itself was painted a shade of blue so dark to be almost black. Dark ceiling and white walls meant the room looked wider and more imposing than it actually was. Gideon didn’t remember the rationale behind that decision, made so long ago she could barely remember it—she just remembered that she liked this shade of blue when she picked it out. She didn’t remember why Senior let her pick out the paint, but he did. 

Senior was not training her today. Pyrrha appeared in her line of vision, one eyebrow raised on that sinuous face. “You feeling alright?” 

Gideon’s checked in with herself. She had fallen with her usual grace and decided then and there that getting back up was one step too many. Her muscles no longer ached from the exertion at the tournament, and her arms and back were glad to be swinging her trusted zweihander again. The movements were easier and familiar; she could rely purely on muscle memory if she wanted to. Except it was muscle memory that found her on her back in the first place. 

“I feel fine,” Gideon said. 

Pyrrha scoffed, twisting Senior’s face into a look he would never be caught dead with. “Okay, Princess Airhead. What was the last move I used to take you down with?”

Gideon had to really think about that. “You tripped me,” she said. Pyrrha’s face turned expectant, a nonverbal request for Gideon to take that thought a few steps further. Gideon did so aloud. “You tripped me, and I fell, and . . . I wasn’t supposed to?” Pyrrha nodded slowly, encouraging Gideon to continue. “Because . . . I misunderstood what we were working on today?” Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Pyrrha sighed. “This is the fifth time you fell and just gave up,” the half-Lyctor said. “Your head’s not in the game. What’s up?”

“The ceiling.” After all, Gideon still had unfettered access to that view. The comment earned her Pyrrha’s boot at her hip, a light kick all things considered. But the boot was a sign that Pyrrha was frustrated with her. Gideon ran her hands through her hair. It was starting to get longer than she liked it. She hid her face in her palms, unwilling to talk because she wasn’t sure what she wanted to talk  _ about _ . She was just feeling—what was a good word for it? Lethargic? Melancholy? Passed over? The same old shit just in a different place? 

She felt Pyrrha join her on the mat, their faces close but inverted. If Gideon turned her head, she would see Pyrrha’s concerned gaze in Senior’s upside down (to Gideon) eyes. But she didn’t. She didn’t want to see that face or those eyes or that expression, and she definitely didn’t want to talk about anything. 

“When was the last time you hung out with your buddies from the Second?” Pyrrha asked. 

“We shared a drink at the tournament feast,” Gideon said after a moment. 

“When was the last time you saw them outside of a season event?” 

Gideon sighed. “What’s this about?”

“I don’t know, kiddo, what  _ is _ this about?” 

Gideon glared at Pyrrha then, but Pyrrha was undeterred. Those eyes were gentle and patient like they always were; a myriad of living and they were never impatient with Gideon, both Pyrrha and the necromancer whose body she possessed. Sometimes Gideon hated that both her parental figures could draw anything out from her. In recent years, Gideon appreciated that she had someone she could confide in. Her teenage years were confusing with Cohort responsibilities in addition to hormones and other discoveries about her body’s divine capabilities, and adulthood wasn’t proving any easier (though the hormones seemed to have relaxed a bit, and she’s more knowledgeable about what she’s capable of). Pyrrha was always there with a word of advice or a kick in the ass, the latter not always deserved if Gideon ever got an opinion. 

Above all else, though, Pyrrha was the most non-judgemental being Gideon knew. Part of this was because Pyrrha had done shit she’s not proud of—the details of which are unknown to Gideon for a myriad of annoying reasons—but a bigger part is because of Pyrrha’s parental nature. That’s what a parent is supposed to be, right? Non-judgemental? Unlike  _ some _ parents. 

Gideon rolled onto her side, facing away from Pyrrha’s gaze in Senior’s body. She half expected her guardian to curl up with her, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Pyrrha asked with an unfamiliar tone, “Did you get those birth records yet?” 

Birth records? 

Oh. Right. 

“No,” the Undying Daughter said, and she tried to keep a realization from her voice for some reason. 

“Did you still want them?” 

Gideon peeked over her shoulder. Pyrrha stared at the ceiling, her eyes purposefully away from Gideon. That was interesting. Guilt didn’t look good on Pyrrha, and it made Gideon nervous. She turned back around, her feelings more complicated than they usually were, which was disconcerting. But if there was one thing the Undying Daughter still wanted, it was more clues to her mysterious origins. Pursuing that would be a welcome distraction. Plus, and this was the important bit, it would be an excuse to see Harrow. Maybe ask about that pending proposal from Camilla the Sixth. 

“I do,” Gideon said, more sure than she’s been all day. 

Pyrrha didn’t sigh, but she might as well have. “Okay then. Training’s over. I’m going to push you extra hard tomorrow.”

With that Pyrrha got up and left. Gideon waited several more minutes before she followed. 

* * *

“My, aren’t we popular?” Dulcie leered at Harrow, a friendly twinkle in those blue eyes. Harrow smiled back, unable to help herself. Shortly after the poetry night, she had somehow facilitated the meeting between the Master Warden and Duchess of Rhodes, a meeting brought about from Harrow’s friendship with the Seventh scion and her budding relationship with Camilla the Sixth. Now the four of them—Harrow, Dulcie, Camilla, and Palamedes—had been making pains to see each other at least every day, either in a park, cafe, theater, or someone’s sitting room. Today, they occupied the sunny sitting room of the Ninth. 

Dulcie’s comment was in response to Aiglamene walking in to ask for a private word with the Reverend Daughter. Harrow got up from the couch and excused herself from her friends. She followed the Ninth captain into the foyer, where the Undying Daughter stood with her arms crossed. Her Divine Highness admired a painting on the wall, a portrait of someone Harrow didn’t know before living at this residence, and certainly kept forgetting to ask about whenever the Fifth came for a visit (they usually visited Ortus, which is what Protesilaus the Seventh was doing at this moment in some back room unused by Harrow). 

In the moment before they locked eyes, that brief stretch of eternity between closing the sitting room door and Gideon turning from the portrait, Harrow noticed the stretch of her back muscles underneath her shirt. Her Divine Highness cut a pristine figure—legs at a military-regulated shoulder width, not meaning to show off but showing off nonetheless. Harrow was reminded of her skill with a rapier, the ease those muscles cut through air like a warm knife through butter or a fork through freshly fluffed rice. Gideon’s hair gleamed a bright shade of red in the natural light filtered into the foyer from the windows by the front door, as though freshly washed moments before. The light caught her holy face, accented her jaw and nose and illuminated half her face from within. Her eyes, those golden eyes like candlelight that always startled Harrow, ran a knife through the necromancer’s stomach. They glowed with divine light, though today the brow they occupied furrowed with an expression that conflicted with the Undying Daughter’s confident swagger. 

Captain Aiglamene retreated to the back recesses of the residence. 

“Gideon,” Harrow greeted with a nod in deference. 

Gideon uncrossed her arms. “Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting anything. I didn’t realize you would have people over.”

Harrow shrugged. “It’s just the Sixth and Seventh. We’re—“  _ casual _ seemed to blasé for what they were, and Harrow didn’t have the brainspace to sort through a list of synonyms for the correct word “—friends, I guess. I’m comfortable leaving them alone in the sitting room, at least. What’s up?”

Gideon bit her lip as though holding back a retort or lost in thought. Or both. “I wanted to check in about those birth records? I don’t mean to be pushy about them. It’s just—I’m getting a little antsy?”

The records that ensured Gideon’s assistance in getting a decent marriage proposal after the Eighth’s social event. She had them. They were just upstairs on a handheld tablet in two different versions: the unabridged version featuring some of the Ninth House’s secrets—thankfully not an explicit mention of their darkest one to date—and the version with the secrets censored. If Harrow knew the nature of why Gideon wanted those documents, she might be able to reveal some things without Her Divine Highness realizing they were secrets. Hidden in plain sight, as it were. 

And she was going to give them to Her Divine Highness. This Harrow was sure of, but she still hesitated. She wanted the Undying Daughter still in her life, feared for the day when they inevitably parted ways. It all came back to price. Was Harrow willing to give up her House’s secrets for a friendship that might not survive past the season? If she did, would it be worth it? And what would happen afterward? Would templars of the Eighth knock on the doors of Drearburh with the intention of dragging her away? Most damning of all, if this friendship didn’t survive beyond this agreement, was it worth calling friendship in the first place? 

“They’re still incoming,” Harrow said, and she could almost believe it. “I’m sorry for the delay. Our resources back home aren’t . . . well, they just aren’t what you’ll be used to. So it takes time, sometimes.”

Gideon nodded. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes looked anywhere but at Harrow. There was something going on, but if Harrow didn’t want Her Divine Highness to pry into the Ninth’s affairs, then it wasn’t Harrow’s place to pry into the First’s. Still, it was unsettling to see the confident figure of the Undying Daughter so lost at sea. 

Without realizing what she was doing, Harrow grasped one of Gideon’s hands and squeezed. “Are you feeling okay?” 

“I—” Her Divine Highness didn’t continue. She looked at their joined hands, her own grip present but not tight—not like their hands at the poetry reading which felt like they would always have that connection. A slight flush colored Gideon’s cheeks, and her eyes widened as though in realization. Harrow felt the knife in her stomach twist. Her Divine Highness said, voice tight, “I should probably go.”

“Please stay.” The words were out of Harrow’s mouth before her brain could register Gideon’s intent. It took another moment for Harrow’s brain to catch up with the fact that she actually said them out loud. 

“I don’t want to impose,” Gideon said, and it was a weak excuse even to Harrow. “Especially with the Si—”

“It’s not an imposition,” Harrow said, “it’s an invitation. I—” Why was this so hard to say? “I would like your company this afternoon.”

Her Divine Highness finally looked at Harrow then, golden eyes once more caught by the sunlight filtering through the foyer windows. Something in Harrow’s chest swelled under that gaze. Simultaneously, her stomach dropped out from under her in preparation for the inevitable rejection. Something in the back of Harrow’s head tightened like a muscle preparing to deflect a blow, a natural defense mechanism she’s cultivated since Drearburh. Harrow was a string of competing emotions tying themselves in a very tight knot. She kept her face neutral, but she still wondered what Gideon saw. What did Gideon see in Harrow, and without their agreement, would Harrow ever be enough for the Undying Daughter? 

“Okay,” Gideon finally said. 

“Okay.” Harrow’s internal organs relaxed as she led Her Divine Highness into the sitting room. One moment she was alone with Gideon and the next the Undying Daughter released Harrow’s hand as the door opened. There, Camilla had been paging through the book Harrow had put down just moments before. Dulcie teased Palamedes about the way he cleaned his glasses with his sleeve. Everyone looked up when Harrow entered with the Emperor’s daughter at her heels. 

“This is Her Divine Highness,” Harrow introduced, perhaps a bit awkwardly.

“Just Gideon’s fine.”

Harrow introduced the necromancer and cavalier of the Sixth and the necromancer of the Seventh, though she realized too late that Gideon would have known everyone already. 

Dulcie said that the cavs for the Seventh and Ninth were around somewhere, but they’ll make themselves known when they want to. She spoke as though their friendship was a secret no one else should know about, a tone she adopted for most bits of gossip. Palamedes patted the arm of Dulcie’s wheelchair, his face carefully neutral now that royalty was in the room. Camilla had stiffened, her hands still as they held the book. 

Gideon must have noticed a change in the room’s atmosphere, and Harrow’s mind wheeled at how uncomfortable things were now. Not everyone would be as easy with Her Divine Highness as Harrow, who had only grown more comfortable the more they spent time just the two of them. Has the Sixth had any interactions with Her Divine Highness since the season started? 

But Gideon was a natural at social interactions, so she must be used to the sort of discomfort her presence alone can bring a room. She gestured to the harpsichord and asked, “Would anyone mind if I play?”

The suggestion delighted Dulcie, but it was Palamedes that asked with curiosity, “You play, Your Divine Highness?”

Gideon sat at the bench, her fingers experimenting with some keys. “Since I was a child,” she answered. “Please, don’t stop conversation for me.” Then she started to quietly play something simple. Harrow recognized it as background music, a song Her Divine Highness would play as either a warm up or while the two of them tried to talk over each other. It felt like a cue of some kind, and Harrow took it by returning to her seat on the couch next to Camilla and asking her opinion about the book in her hand. 

In the back of her mind, Harrow counted the songs, most of which she had grown familiar with. There was the warm up song, an etude that she quite liked because it reminded her of sunny walks in the park, the song that sounded like a Drearburh lullaby, and a few others. The conversation ambled from books to necromancy to a funny event Dulcie had with the modiste who confused necromancy and necrophilia (“You can’t spell necromance without romance,” Dulcie said with a wink). This sparked a long speech Palamedes had about a romance series he had been reading that he was quite fixated with. 

In the middle of his (very long) speech, the harpsichord faded into silence, bringing an eerie stillness to the room. Dulcie broke it by calling, “Play Free Bird!”

“Fuck you,” Gideon said automatically. Then had a visual panic attack when she registered those words directed to these people. Harrow watched her eyes widen, arms raised in apology or comfort towards the duchess of the Seventh, but Dulcie giggled so loudly she threatened to topple out of her chair. Palamedes wrapped his arms around the duchess in an attempt to right her, but she was resistant to the idea. 

Harrow found herself smiling at both Dulcie’s fit of giggles and Gideon’s reaction, her chest vibrating unfamiliarly. A part of her felt bad for Her Divine Highness; she had always tried to be kind with her subjects whenever she could. In an intimate setting like this, Harrow realized that she was also shy around new people, as though conscious of the barrier of royalty hanging around her wherever she went. A barrier Her Divine Highness couldn’t shed, not like Harrow could lose the title of Reverend Daughter. A few times during the season, Harrow had toyed with the idea of losing her face paint and donning some color and walking around the ton in disguise, and often dismissed it as soon as she looked at herself in the mirror. She was unfamiliar with her own bare face despite looking at it every morning, and she wasn’t sure she would like the person she saw if given the opportunity to let her loose. 

Once Dulcie calmed down, she sighed. “Your Imperial Majesty, please forgive me,” she said. “But your face was absolutely priceless.” Dulcie threatened to lose herself in another fit of giggles then. 

“Any other requests,” Gideon asked, “besides the worst song in the universe?” She glared at Dulcie, but it was easy to recognize the friendly jab behind the tone. 

Camilla turned to Harrow, then. “Harrow, will you sing a song for us?” 

The room went quiet. 

“Oh, do you sing, Reverend Daughter?” Dulcie asked. 

Harrow looked at Camilla then. Those brown eyes and aquiline nose and the hopeful expression there, shy in their request as though expecting Harrow to turn it down. Which only made Harrow’s heart throb. 

“I do sing,” Harrow said. “I would love to show you all, though you’ll have to forgive my skill. I usually sing during orison back home, and, well, my congregation wouldn’t critique me.” She stood up and stood next to the harpsichord. Gideon’s expression was expectant, and Harrow smiled at it. “The one that sounds like Drearburh.” She hummed a bit of the melody, and Gideon nodded, knowing which one. She played a chord and Harrow found her starting pitch. 

There was a phrase or two of intro, then Harrow came in. She couldn’t look at her audience, instead focusing on the books and pretending they were her people back home (a feat because the book bindings were so colorful and the robes back home so black). She was conscious of the fact that she wore her least favorite dress today because it was the only one that was clean. The eyes of her friends were rapt, and Harrow led the harpsichord seamlessly into a bridge after the second chorus. And when Harrow stopped for breath, Gideon improvised a little solo based on her melody. When Harrow came back in, she felt rather than heard the harpsichord provide harmony, and then the song ended. 

In the breath between the final note and the applause, Harrow realized she used her own modified words for the lullaby. Words that she wrote as a child in response to the secret her parents told her every year on her birthday. 

But then the clapping started, Dulcie’s the most enthusiastic of them all, and Harrow forced herself to pretend they were old words that meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Back in her chair, Harrow reeled for a few moments more, her hand in Camilla’s, which helped to ground her, comforting in their calluses and firm grip. When Harrow collected herself, Palamedes and Gideon had switched places, a Sixth ballad Harrow didn’t know providing ambient music for the conversation between Dulcie and Her Divine Highness. 

“You need anything,” Camilla asked. “Water? Tea?”

Harrow shook her head. “I’m fine. Thanks.” She smiled. Camilla smiled. 

From across the room, Dulcie said, “ . . . now that we have made ourselves familiar, Your Imperial Majesty, I have something I wish to discuss with you.” The way Dulcie’s shoulder shimmied and Gideon’s eyes glinted with mischief meant that those two would be absolutely wild if allowed to prank the entire ton. Which may or may not be what they were about to discuss, now that Harrow thought about it. 

“I am all years, Duchess,” Gideon said, totally into this. 

“Dulcie, if you please.”

Gideon smiled. “Then I am Gideon, Dulcie.” 

“Gideon.” Dulcie tasted the word on her tongue. Harrow heard her smile from across the room. “I have heard rumors of my doppelganger’s appearance at a couple society events.” This caught everyone’s attention, though the harpsichord still played. “And in my questioning of as many people as possible, present company included, I have learned two things. One, she only appears at events I expressly said I would not attend. And two, she has an unusual fascination with you.” 

Gideon crossed her legs and leaned into the back of the armchair she now occupied, her full attention on the Duchess of Rhodes. “Go on.”

Dulcie asked Gideon a few questions about this doppelganger: when they first met, what happened, if Gideon saw her leave the opening gala and masquerade. Everything seemed to corroborate the data Dulcie had previously gathered. Finally, Dulcie got to the part she wanted to ask, which Harrow only knew because those denim-colored eyes lit up brighter than the sitting room. 

“I propose we lay a trap for the doppelganger in an attempt to catch her,” Dulcie said. 

Harrow looked around the room. Palamedes had finally stopped playing the harpsichord in favor of listening to Dulcie. Camilla was rapt as well, her eyes narrowed with a determination Harrow hadn’t seen before. The idea of Camilla getting behind something that will most definitely break a few rules left Harrow feeling a little thrilled. But what really sold Harrow on the idea was the expression on Gideon’s face. Her Divine HIghness had the smirk of a predator who had been denied the hunt and was now about to go back to the wilds. 

“I’m in,” Harrow said. 

“Me too,” said Camilla. 

Palamedes was also in, if only because of his cavalier. 

“We’re your team, Duchess,” Gideon said. “What’s the plan?”

* * *

_ Drearburh’s Lullaby (Harrow’s Version) _

__ _   
_ _ Two hundred daughters of the oss  
_ _ And two hundred sons  
_ _ Two hundred children in a night  
_ _ The children of the lost _

_ Their spirits ran away   
_ _ And who can blame  
_ _ Their spirits felt the pull,   
_ _ They felt the sway _

_ Oh, someone help the children  
_ _ Oh, someone guide them home _

_ And now I am here, keeping vigil  
_ _ Now I am here  
_ _ And now I keep and pray   
_ _ To two hundred angels _

_ Oh, someone help the children  
_ _ Oh, someone guide them home  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqnU_sJ8V-E) for the most hated song to request at a rock concert.
> 
> And here is more Ball AU by [Rocketbelle](https://twitter.com/rocketbelle/status/1358866586556317699?s=19), this time with dancing!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and subscribes are much appreciated <3 I read every single comment. If I do not reply, know that I am sending you all the love. You can find me elsewhere on [Tumblr](https://themorikelife.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/callmekt_91). Thanks for reading!


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